For now, Untitled
by ABL
Summary: A young girl, homeless, with only a typewriter and a bag of books to her name, finds her way into Aziraphale's bookshop. C/A, OC/OC. NOT a one-shot, no matter how the summary sounds.
1. Chapter 1

**I suppose I should say here that this story was never meant to see the light of day. I'm usually more of a "serious" writer--that is, I write stories using only my own original characters, suitable for publication without being sued. However, occasionally a story comes along--or a character or two--that grabs my attention, and I indulge myself in a story that isn't enitrely my own creation. Unlike my other works, I usually keep these to myself.**

**But stories are meant to be read. This one has been nagging at my conscience, and I couldn't keep it locked away anymore. Call me crazy, maybe, but sometimes stories take on a mind of their own.**

**Please, keep in mind that this is the self-indulgent fantasy of a sixteen-year-old girl. It's got a bit of self-insertion (although, from the authors I know, that's not exactly a rare thing), a bit of Mary-sueishness, and a bit of a random tangency to it; although I swear, there is a plot. I hope that doesn't dissuade you from reading the story itself, because I do think it's pretty good.**

**Oh, yeah, and disclaimer: I don't own about half the characters in this story. This goes for the whole story, because I don't want to put this at the start of every chapter.**

**Anyway, once upon a time...**

* * *

Jen was wet. 

She really wondered, for a moment, what in the world had possessed her to come to England. The fact that she hated America so much, perhaps – with its annoying religious bigots and televangelsts and delusions of democracy. Or maybe it was in her longing desire to make something of herself, something minus a cubicle or a happy house with a happy family. Perhaps because her semi-idealistic plan had sounded so good and exciting, to be a freelance writer for several newspapers, get some stories published, and scrape up a living.

Or maybe it was just the promise of rain. England was always rainy, everyone in the USA had said. They were right.

Jen wasn't too fond of the rain at the moment.

Somewhere in Soho, lost, alone, and feeling very dumb, she sat on a sidewalk.

Well, dammit. Things had been going so _well_ for her back at home, too – she'd had a true love (painfully unrequited), and a best friend (who she didn't really _want_ to call), and a family and a home and a warm, _dry_ bed to sleep in nights…

Now all Jen had was an old typewriter – currently safe-ish in a large plastic bag its tartan case– and her Bag O' Books, which she kept on her back at all times. Food wasn't on her priorities list, for some reason, and she was starting to regret it.

True, starving was a _great_ way to lose weight, but Jen would rather live to gain it. Honestly, was looking fabulous a good reason to starve?

No.

But she wasn't trying to look fabulous, now was she? No, she was just a homeless bum in the middle of Soho, wishing – almost praying, even, but Jen was a staunch atheist and refused to ask for the help of a nonexistent superhero in the sky – for a miracle to get her out of the rain.

Jen leaned against the wall of a random building behind her, shivering. What had she been _thinking? _

A bell chimed.

"Excuse me, dear girl, but are you stuck in the rain?"

A man was looking at her from a shop door—tall and blonde and prim. Small spectacles were perched on his nose precariously.

He was gay, Jen thought. Gay and English and smart and, most likely, safe to accept help from. Gay men weren't supposed to rape women, were they? They found women about as attractive as she did. So Jen would be fine accepting help.

Plus, she didn't have a choice. It was trust this guy or die as a paranoid bitch.

She'd been a paranoid bitch long enough.

"Y-y-yes," Jen stuttered. "Th-th-thank you."

---------------------------------------------

The man was older than she'd thought at first – it was impossible to place his age, actually – and his hair was blonde, and he had angelic eyes.

And he was stunningly good at pulling towels from thin air, because he certainly hadn't had one a second ago. Jen smiled and accepted the fluffy pink thing graciously as he led her into the back room of his shop.

His _bookshop. _

It was an antique bookshop, of all places – in downtown Soho? Somehow, Jen didn't think that fit the theme of retail and porn. And these books were…

Wow.

Jen stared at the old volumes as she changed into new clothes – they fit her perfectly, even if they were a bit old-fashioned. Skirts. Disgusting.

Only Jen didn't really _mind_ skirts, honestly. Four years of hiding behind a high school mask had trained her to hate the girly side of her persona. Maybe it was time to change that in England. Maybe it was time to switch masks.

Jen wondered, for a moment or two, why he'd have women's clothes back here. She didn't really want to—

Those _eyes…_

Oh.

Well. She'd been wrong, then. That was that.

The man was making a cup of tea for her when she left the back room, and she smiled. "Two sugars," Jen told him. "No cream or anything, can't stand cream."

The man smiled.

She knew now, and she had to admit that the coincidence was incredible. Finding an angel that owned a bookshop in downtown Soho… Not that she'd ever admit it to herself, but the entire reason she'd been drawn to Soho in the first place was in hopes of this.

He wasn't _that_ angel, of course. Couldn't be. The coincidence would be too much.

"You're an angel, aren't you?" Jen said. It wasn't really a question, for all the punctuation it had.

The man dropped his cup of tea. It smashed on the floor with a satisfying chlink, and hot tea pooled around Jen's now-bare toes. It was warm, but it burned comfortably.

"You knew? How…"

Jen shrugged. "Lucky guess. You just got to be able to look. My name's Jen. Jennifer Stone. I'm an atheist, so if you want to throw me out of here, I understand. Thanks for the dry-off."

The angel smiled and suddenly the cup hadn't smashed at all – couldn't have, seeing as it was nice and safe in his hands, steaming happily, and Jen's toes were still frozen. "Nonsense, Jennifer. Did you want your tea?"

"Thanks. Never heard your name, angel."

"Aziraphale."

There was another satisfying chlink from the ground. A burning sensation crept up through her skirt and onto her legs.

He _was_ that angel.

"You don't know a demon named Crowley, do you?"

"Please stop knowing things," Aziraphale said. "It's rather disconcerting." He blinked, and Jen sipped her tea. For some reason, she wasn't as shocked by this.

"For _you_? I thought you were a bibliophile! Don't you _read_, angel?" Jen was grinning madly. "Mea dea, Aziraphale! You're real!"

"As opposed to what? How do you know who I am?"

Jen grinned. "Let me get my bag, Zira. I gotta show you something."

--------------------------------------

"A book? I suppose it's fitting."

"I guess." Jen grinned. "A good book, too. One of my favourites."

"You've read it, then?"

"Yeah." Jen nodded. She looked tentatively at the book in her hands, rumpled and worn. A dog bite adorned the upper right corner on the back cover. There were odd stains and random scribbles As Made By Jen on nearly every page. Page sixty-three to ninety-three were held in solely by sticky tape and glue

The book was well-loved.

"Do you know these guys, then?"

"No," said Aziraphale. "Perhaps Crowley does, but I'd bet…" He paused.

"Yeah?"

"Ineffable," said Aziraphale softly. "How am I going to tell Crowley about this?"

Soft silence crept into the conversation. Jen fiddled with the tape that held the cover of Good Omens onto the piece of literature itself. It was Aziraphale on the cover, but the picture looked nothing like the angel. His hair was wilder in reality, for one, and he was older. Chubbier.

The clothes looked about right, though.

"Oh, forgive me. You mush be exhausted, Jennifer. I can… Er. I don't have a bed, I'm afraid, but I can miracle up a cot in the back room, if you want…"

"I'm not all that tired, actually." Her stomach growled like Richard Parker from The Life of Pi. "I'm half-starved, though. You wouldn't happen to have anything to eat, would you?"

"There's an excellent pizza place not far from here. Do you mind a short walk?"

"If it ends in food? Not at all."

-----------------------------------------------

"This isn't real pizza," Jen said, staring at the little chequered napkins. "You don't eat real pizza with a knife and fork. Unless it's, like, school pizza. Then you have to, or it'll dissolve your hands."

"Really?"

"No, not really," Jen said. "But it looks like it can." She took another bite, devouring the not-pizza hungrily.

"Doesn't seem to be effecting your appetite," Aziraphale said jokingly. Jen shook her head and gulped.

"I haven't eaten in… I don't even know. Few days."

"Poor dear."

"There are people who have it worse," Jen said. "There are kids who can't go to sleep at night without wondering if they'll still be there in the morning, or if they'll be in the army. There are people who can't help but wonder if they'll live another day, or if it'll be the day that the Janjaweed finally hit their village. There are people…"

"Yes, yes, I'm an angel, remember?"

"I wondered about that," Jen said, and realized that her words made absolutely no sense. "Er. I mean, I wondered why you live in England, instead of Darfur or Russia or something. You know, where you're really needed."

Aziraphale sighed. "I… I was assigned here."

"Assigned here?"

"Because of my relationship with Crowley."

"You love him," Jen said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

Aziraphale blushed gracefully. "I wouldn't say—"

"I've read the book, remember. And the movie script. You two have some serious sexual tension built up, you know."

"Er."

"I know, I know, you're an angel. Continue on with your story, Aziraphale."

"Er, yes. I was assigned to England because… They felt I wasn't… Because of Crowley, I was…"

"Coherent sentences, angel."

"Upstairs felt that I wasn't qualified for big miracles," Azirapahle said. "I'm too easily… tempted."

"What'd Crowley say to that?"

"He doesn't know. I have no intention of telling him."

"Wait, so they assigned you here with Crowley?"

"I was assigned here shortly after the French Revolution," the angel said. "Crowley went over to America for a bit, and then showed up on my doorstep one day ranting about how they didn't even _need_ his help."

Jen laughed. "He's got that right."

"I'm sorry, that's your homeland, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I hate it there."

"I haven't been since the Revolution," said Aziraphale.

"Thought you said you were in France?"

"Left the States shortly after they won freedom," said Aziraphale. "I felt I was needed elsewhere."

"You dislike the States, then?"

Aziraphale paused. "Well," he admitted, "Yes. It reminds me of…"

He stopped.

"Of Heaven?"

"The illusion of freedom," said Aziraphale. "It's a little too… disconcerting."

"No matter what they say, they never mess up."

"Even when things don't work out…"

"…It always feels like everything's going according to plan. Like it's all justified."

"Like it's all ineffable," Aziraphale whispered. "Exactly."

There was a silence.

"I'm a bibliophile, too," Jen said suddenly. "Shakespeare, Bradbury, Verne, Adams, and Gaiman and Pratchett, of course."

"Really? That's refreshing to see in young people nowadays."

"Yeah, I like to think so."

Silence.

"Shakespeare's my favourite."

More silence.

"I like old books, too."

Aziraphale smiled like an angel. "Do you want to move into the bookshop, Jennifer?"

Jen grinned. "Never even crossed my mind. Can I?"

"Of course. You'll have to work, of course. Earn your living."

Jen raised an eyebrow. "Love to, but depends on the work. By doing what, exactly?"

Aziraphale's face turned roughly the colour of a tomato. "I'm an angel, Jennifer. I meant by doing some work around the shop – dusting, book repair, general upkeep."

"Oh."

"I mean, really."

"Sorry. What can I say, 'Zira? I'm an American." Jen smiled innocently. "These are the places my mind's been trained to go."

-------------------------------------------

A second Arrangement was made. It said:

Jen would stay at the bookshop with Zira, taking any needed sleep on a cot in the back room. He would provide her with any necessities she needed. In return, Jen would take general care of his books—dusting, re-binding covers, fixing the pages that got eaten by bookworms, etc. She would also—and Aziraphale was especially stern about this one—continue writing, and preferably show him what she wrote.

Jen agreed to this on the condition that he would never attempt to convert her and let her handle Crowley's temptations on her own.

"Agreed," said Aziraphale, and then they shook on it.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two.** _

* * *

"There's just no spark there. I'm sorry."

Jen woke up with the memory – the dream – whatever it was – fresh in her mind. John's voice on the phone. Heartbreak. Resolution.

She sat up, looked around, and realized that she hadn't been sleeping on a park bench. This was a bit of a revelation.

Right. This was the bookshop in Soho. This was _Aziraphale's_ bookshop in Soho. He was _real_. Crowley was real…

Crowley.

True, she'd always had a bit of a soft spot for the angel. She'd always known that the two of them would get along like… Well, instant friends. Aziraphale was literature, and intelligence, and most of what she valued. But Crowley was…

Well, he was a lot more like her.

And she wasn't sure how she'd get along with him.

Jen sat up and the cot complained. She took in her surroundings like a fresh glass of water – the synonym came to mind because she'd have liked one at the time.

The walls weren't walls back here, they were bookshelves. Bookshelves with glass doors that had locks on them, and little keypads that appeared to control temperature.

Jen stood, waited for the headrush to clear, and had a closer look.

They were Bibles.

Lots of Bibles. Bibles, she guessed, with errors and now-deleted passages, Bibles that maybe told the original story…

"Good morning," said a voice behind her in angelic tones. Jen jumped.

"Zira, you scared me."

"Zira?"

"Aziraphale is so _long_," said Jen. "And I can't call you 'angel'. That would be weird."

Aziraphale laughed. "Or," he said, "You could call me Aziraphale."

"Or I could call you Aziraphale."

---------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Mom! …Yeah, I know I haven't called in a while, I guess you were worried? The cell's out of batteries. I lost the charger. Yeah, sorry… I found a place to live, you know! No, I haven't been-- Okay, yeah, I've been living on the streets this past week. I'm fine, Mom, don't worry. I couldn't afford a ride home, Mom. I'm on the other side of the planet.

"No, but listen, it's okay now, I got a place to stay. I'm working at a used bookstore in Soho. The dude who owns it gave me some lodgings in the back, and I just do some work around the shop in return… He's paying me and I get a free place to stay… Mom. Really. Don't worry about it, he's an absolute angel. Ew! No! He's like, six thousand years old!

"You can reach me at this number, I promise – or I found my cell charger, so call me there. I'll be fine, Mom, love you. When you get John's and Kerrie's numbers, let me know, okay?

"Alright. Love you. Bye."

------------------------------------------------- 

A week or so went by, and the angel actually got along well with the atheist.

Jen still _swore_ she was an atheist. "Don't think you can get around me by existing," she told Aziraphale at his first attempt to convert her. "And that's a quote from one of your gods."

"There is only one—"

"Not God-god, I mean your real gods. Your writers. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett."

"Writers aren't gods, Stone."

"That illustrates exactly how much you know about writing, then," said Jen proudly. "Can I get my pay in advance this week, Zira? The ink ribbon in my typewriter gave out."

--------------------------------------

A fortnight or so went by, and Jen started to get bored. Her original plan for England flitted back into her head—only occasionally, at first, but she began to think of it more and more frequently. Soon it was all she could think about.

"Zira?" He was doing his yearly taxes, sitting studiously at his computer with the little spectacles that he didn't really need. You had to smile.

"My name isn't Zira, Stone, it's Aziraphale."

"Yeah, I know, sorry, can I ask something of you?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Certainly."

"Listen, when I first came to England, I had a plan. There's a Washington Post outlet-thing here, a Foreign Correspondence office? My plan was to… er, to freelance. For some extra cash."

"You only need to ask me if you want some money, you know."

"I know, but it's not about the money, it's about the _ideals_ of it all, you know? Would it be okay with you if I started, just… you know, freelancing with them? Just as a job on the side, I mean, I'd still do all the work I do here."

Aziraphale laughed angelically. "Why do you need my permission?"

"I dunno. You're my employer, of sorts, and my landlord, of sorts. Seemed like I should ask."

"Go right ahead, Jen. Although… Would you like my help?"

"Help? Help how?"

"Let me show you."

---------------------------------

They sat on a bench in St. James Park, Aziraphale with a chocolate ice cream cone and Jen with a notebook in her hand. She produced journals out of nowhere as steadily as Crowley could produce wine, Aziraphale thought fleetingly. He hadn't seen the demon around in a while, which was probably a good thing.

"Why are we here?"

"Patience is a virtue."

"You're breaking the Conversion Clause," Jen said.

"Is that what you're calling it now?"

"C.C. for short," the mortal said with a half-joking smile.

"Ah, well, wait a moment. I'm looking for someone good… Ah, there." Aziraphale pointed. "See that young chap over by the pond? Red silk shirt, tight leather pants? His name is Jude Almsington. Sixteen years old, and homeless at the moment. He's a homosexual, and his parents threw him out not an hour ago when he finally came out to them."

"What?" Jen stared. "Angelic knowledge?"

"And millennia of experience," Aziraphale added. "I can also tell you that in a few moments—you see that other young man, on the bench?"

She looked. "Black 'fro man?"

"No, the other bench."

"With the guitar case. Adrian Young, no relation to the Antichrist. He's homosexual and homeless as well. In a few minutes, he'll take out his guitar and begin to play for money. Jude will know the song, see? And we will discover that he has an incredible singing voice…"

Jen nodded. "They skyrocket to fame and fortune, finding love along the way?"

"Yes, exactly."

"I've gotta ask. Is this normal fate, or your divine influence?"

"It's my job," Aziraphale said. "Now, if you want to get a story, you have fifteen minutes to ask Jude Almsington what is on his mind."

----------------------------------------

A month or so went by, and the atheist actually got along well with the angel.

He still _swore_ God existed, and soon the two began bantering about religion in general. Privately, Aziraphale saw it as a Good Deed, and Jen as a test of her debating skills.

"Yes, but there's no scientific evidence to his existence," was Jen's golden line. "Give me proof, Aziraphale."

"I'm an _angel_," he'd say. "I'm proof. Me. Standing right here, talking to you."

"Yes, you're an odd little thing, but prove it."

"Wings!"

"Could be plastic surgery."

"I've met Him!"

"So has the pope. Prove it."

"Do you want me to call up the Metatron and have _him_ explain it?"

"If you want to. Most likely I'd guess it would be an elaborate recording and some wacky lights."

Aziraphale groaned.

---------------------------------------

Jen kept in touch with the two homeless boys, only within a week they weren't homeless anymore.

Jude kept thanking God for his _fantastic_ luck, to which Jen only smiled and suggested that he had a guardian angel hidden somewhere. Within a month after their meeting, she turned in the story to the Washington Post people. It was published a few days later.

Heartened, she followed the Second Arrangement, and kept on writing.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

Another month or so went by, and Jen still had yet to meet a demon.

That was about to change.

Jen was binding up an old copy of Alice in Wonderland, and Aziraphale was tediously going over taxes on his old, clunky computer. There was absolute silence in the store, and then—

Ding.

"Angel, I need a drink!"

Jen looked up, and her jaw dropped. Mr. A. J. Crowley was standing in the doorway.

He was tall, and dark, and handsome. Inexplicably sexy dark hair hung down in front of his famous sunglasses. Someone seemed to have stuffed cotton into Jen's mouth.

Crowley was _sexy_, dammit.

He peered at her through his eternal sunglasses. "Hello," he said. "Er. Um."

"I know, dude," Jen said simply. "You're a demon, my employer's an angel, we're past all that."

"Oh," said Crowley. "Groovy, then. You old enough to drink?"

"Happily," Jen said.

"Stone, no," said the angel firmly. "You can't sober up on demand, and Crowley has a habit—"

"Once," said Crowley. "And Alexander deserved it. 'Great', my ass. Come on, it's my turn to buy and I desperately need a drink."

"_Please_, Zira?" Jen asked, pouting.

"Don't call me that," said Aziraphale said wearily. "Fine, fine. We can go to the pub. But I'm limiting the alcohol in Stone's system."

Jen rolled her eyes, but a compromise was a compromise.

------------------------------------------------- 

"N then," Crowley slurred, "N then, 'n then Enki- Enknu – Kudu, you know, the bugger with the wolfy dad – he says, he says…"

"Said he wuzza luved—" drawled Aziraphale…

"With- With- Gligo- Gilgamarsh! No, 'znot right…"

"Gilgamesh?" Jen asked, grinning and not quite as drunk as the two immortals seemed to be. "And Enkidu?"

"Friends until th' end!" Crowley said, waving a beer in the air.

"An' more," said Azirapahle, clinking his can against Crowley's. "Sealed it wi' a kish."

The angel giggled, and Jen felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"Hey…" she said softly.

"Mna?" asked Crowley elegantly.

"Are you two, like… Well, like that?"

A glance was exchanged.

Silence.

"Mna?" asked Aziraphale. "Li' wha'?"

"Like Enkidu and Gilgamesh. You know."

"Nope!" said Crowley happily. "I have no idea!"

"Er. Never mind, then," Jen said softly, smiling. She didn't really need an answer.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Jen, in due time, got her own plants. She spoke to them, too, but for some reason it worked better for her than it worked for Crowley. They grew bigger, greener, and far less terrified. In fact, Crowley would be damned if they didn't lean into her presence every time she entered the room, almost as if begging for attention.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, John! How'd you get this number? …Agh, I told her to give me _your_ number, not the other way around… 'S cool. How've you been? …To shreds, you say? That… really sucks. Did you fail? To shreds, you say? Aw, man. Well, maybe next time, eh?

"No, I'm not in college. Just England. What, didn't mum tell you that? Yeah, I'm staying with this old book-seller dude. Zira. He's cool. Relax, he's not gonna rape me. Why is this the first thing that comes to everyone's mind? He's a total angel. No, seriously. Dude, you are _sick. _

"Speaking of which, J, he wants to use the phone. This your number? Cool, okay, I'll call you later."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Four_**

Crowley was sleeping when the phone rang, subconsciously considering sleeping the century away—again. Then a loud buzz crashed through the penguins of his mind, and he fell off the couch.

So much for that.

His hand reached out and grasped the receiver from the charger.

"Ngh?"

"Crowley?" said a tinny angelic voice on the line. "Dear boy, are you there?"

"Angel?"

"Hello, dear boy," said Aziraphale. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I just got a call from Heaven."

"Yeh?"

"Perhaps I should tell you this in person. Care to meet me at the Ritz in a few minutes?"

"The kid gonna be there?"

"I don't want to bother her with this," said Aziraphale softly. "I'm sure she'll understand."

Crowley nodded on the phone, forgetting that Aziraphale couldn't see him. If Aziraphale wasn't letting Jen come along, this was serious.

"Sure," he said. "Ciao."

And hung up the phone.

-------------------------------------------

Aziraphale and Crowley met in the Ritz, per usual. Crowley was the first to arrive, for once, and as he waited he lounged back in his chair. His eyes scanned the restaurant for his…

Well, perhaps they _were_ friends, although Crowley wasn't sure that was the right term. They were more distant than that. Closer. He couldn't tell the angel anything… but he could tell Aziraphale _everything_.

It was a weird relationship.

Lo and behold…

"Angel," said Crowley, raising his glass of wine – that had _always_ been there, you could ask anyone—and waving Aziraphale over.

Aziraphale nodded and obeyed. Crowley could tell from here that his hands were shaking.

"What's the deal?"

"Oh, traffic, you know, and convincing Stone not to come…"

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant, dear boy," said Azirapahle. "Could you at least humour me with some small talk?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, although of course Aziraphale didn't see that. "Alright," he said. "How'd you convince the kid, then?"

Azirapahle blushed. "I got a call from Up There this morning," he said.

"Did you?" said Crowley, making a note of how Aziraphale was skirting the subject. "What's up, then? No pun intended."

"Very droll," said Aziraphale. "No, no, it was… Um. Had you heard anything, perhaps, from Down There… lately?"

"Should I have?"

"Concerning the end of the world, perhaps?"

Crowley set his glass down on the table. It made a very final sort of clink.

"Again?" he asked, and blinked. The contents of his glass became a much stronger drink, one that hadn't been seen since the days of Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

"I'll assume that means no, then?"

"No, I hasn't. Suppose they didn't want me buggering it all up again."

"I suppose not. Word has it that… Well, that… Down There Himself sired another child shortly after our… er, the first go at it. A female, apparently. And the Second Great War should be coming around fairly shortly."

"And neither of us were told?" asked Crowley incredulously.

"And risk the child growing up human again?"

"Ah."

"I'm afraid it's too late, dear boy."

"I guess so." Crowley sloshed the drink around in his glass mournfully. "Well, angel, I suppose this is it, then?"

"They said they'd wait until she was twenty-one this time."

"Ah. How long have we got?"

"A year, roughly," said Aziraphale. "Which is why, well…" he blushed again. "Shall we take a walk, Crowley?"

Crowley smiled. "Sure, angel," he said. "St. James Park?"

"As always."

---------------------------------------

Jen didn't believe the excuse Aziraphale had given her, of course. There was no way those two were dating, not without some sort of buildup.

But he hated to see her feelings hurt, and it was a nice lie to believe. So Jen pretended to buy it.

He'd tell her what was wrong in his own time.

Right?

Jen sighed. Curse her vague paranoia. She grabbed her coat, her cell, and left the bookstore.

--------------------------------

Crowley tossed another bit of bread into the water, and watched a duck nibble it up. Then he watched its head explode.

"Really, my dear," said Azirapahle sternly. "Don't ruin a good afternoon."

Crowley smiled and rolled his eyes. The duck was fine. "I'm still a demon, Aziraphale." A young boy stole a woman's wallet.

"And I'm still an angel. We both have our little urges." Aziraphale blinked and suddenly the woman noticed the pickpocket. She reclaimed her wallet and shooed the boy away sternly.

"Yeah," said Crowley in a way that made Aziraphale's face a bit _too_ hot. "Urges."

Aziraphale smiled, and they stood there a moment in companionable silence. Neither demon nor angel felt the need to break it, really.

Except there were things that needed to be said.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale softly. "You know that you're the best friend I've ever had, right?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah," he said, and gave the angel a Look through his dark glasses. Aziraphale turned away under the gaze, unsure. Too much, too soon? They hadn't even admitted that they were friends yet, really, much less _close_ friends, much less the best friends either had ever had.

"Same here," said Crowley gruffly, and turned back to the ducks.

"Really?"

"Down There isn't the best place to make friends," said Crowley.

"Oh."

"Can't trust each other."

"And you trust me?"

"No," said Crowley. "But I distrust you in a friendly sort of way. It's not the same."

"Ah," said Aziraphale, and threw another breadcrumb to the ducks.

More silence.

"I like you quite a lot, actually," said Crowley.

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You consider me a close friend too, then?" asked the angel.

Silence.

"Maybe," said the demon. "It's dangerous to say."

Silence.

"Well, we're used to danger."

Silence.

"True."

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other sideways, and then back at the pond.

"I love you," said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. He wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Is that all you're going to do?" Aziraphale asked. "Shrug? I just said that I love you—"

There was a movement.

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Well, that's alright, then."

And kissed Crowley again.

------------------------------------------

Jen saw the kiss from behind a bush and found herself blushing.

Oh, so he _hadn't_ been lying. Well, that was dumb. Of course he wasn't lying. Aziraphale was an angel.

Angels never lied.

Jen sighed, relieved. She didn't know why she was so scared that everyone she grew close to would leave her. Yeah, a lot of the time they had, but that wasn't always the case. Look at Aziraphale and Crowley, together since Eden…

John crossed her mind with a sharp twang, and Jen shuddered. She'd come here to forget the man, to get over him the way she'd been trying to do since her Junior year of high school. He didn't love her in return. That was…

That was reality.

But there were so many _parallels_.

Jen remembered, back in Junior year when the heartbreak was new, how she'd come across the screenplay version of Good Omens. And she remembered how familiar the dialogue between Crowley and Aziraphale had seemed.

_CROWLEY: So, when are you going back to London? _

_AZIRAPHALE: I'm not going back. _

_CROWLEY: Well, we've found him. I don't need you anymore. _

_AZIRAPHALE: But we had a deal… _

She remembered how Aziraphale had always seemed to follow Crowley around, how Crowley always took the angel for granted…

_I don't need you anymore… _

And it had sort of struck home.

Yeah, John was her best friend, but sometimes she wondered if he'd only hung out with her during high school for her family. If he liked her parents more than he liked her.

If she was just sort of a tool.

And she loved him anyway.

During the internal monologue, Jen had snuck out of the bushes and left her immortal friends to their long-deserved kisses. She sighed, glanced backward at the happy couple, and wished that there was _one_ more similarity between John and Crowley.

She wished that John would love her back, too.

Or at least take his disrespect to the level where he'd _use_ her, but he wouldn't even do that. He couldn't even break her heart properly. Where the hell was the logic there?

Yeah, love sucked.

Damn you, Up There, Jen thought, glancing upward. She'd choose Hell over Heaven any day. Hell didn't have all that love floating around.

-----------------------------------------------------

The sky above St. James Park had been grey the whole morning, and now the rain was beginning to fall through. Crowley and Aziraphale pulled apart, a goofy grin on the angel's face and an annoyed glare on the demon's.

"Come on, angel," said Crowley, running a hand through Aziraphale's hair. "Shall we get out of the rain?"

Aziraphale handed him an umbrella. "Let's walk a ways," he said softly.

Crowley nodded. The umbrella had the symbol of Yin and Yang on it, and neither was entirely sure as to why.

----------------------------------------------

John was driving.

It was rainy and dark, and the road was long and winding. Scenes from movies passed through the background of his mind, waiting to be pulled into the distance.

In the foreground of his mind was Jen, sitting there atop a pile of wounded pride.

Some best friend, he thought. Sure, she'd always talked about moving to England when they were in high school—he'd never thought she'd actually be stupid enough to go and do it. And, if she _had_, he'd have thought she'd at least tell him.

Tell _him_, her best friend in the entire world, that she was moving to another country.

The rain made a sound like thousands of tiny fingers snapping on his windshield.

There were headlights in the distance.

----------------------------------------

When Jen got back to the bookshop, there was a blue light occurring in the back room. She shrugged and went to see what was going on.

"Yello?"

The blue light flickered. Jen liked to think that meant it was surprised.

"We… Er…"

"Looking for Aziraphale, I presume?"

"Er… Yes. Is he here?"

"Naw, he's out conquering evil at the moment. Can I take a message?"

"Er… Yes, tell him that the Metatron is attempting to get in touch with him. We have rather dire information…"

"Metatron… Right, so he _is_ an angel, then?" Jen knew that already, but felt that she should say this for Aziraphale's benefit.

"You knew?"

"I had my suspicions. I'll let him know you called."

"Right. Er, farewell."

The light vanished a little too quickly to pull off the mystical thing. Jen grinned, wondering if she'd scared it or something. The Metatron was probably used to grovelling mortals, not self-driven new-age women like she was.

Then her cell phone rang.

------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Mum. What's up?

"…What? When? How? What happened?

"…Is he gonna be okay? …I… Mom, that's not funny. That's not…

"No, no, that's not true.

"I… I'm coming home. Now. I'll get my boss to pay, he's not gonna care… Mom, no, you don't get it, I _have_ to be there! I'll make it! I've gotta… Mea dea, this can't be happening.

"Tell his mum I loved him, okay?"

-----------------------------------------------

"Crowley?"

"Mn?"

"You do realize we've only got a year left, right?"

Crowley rolled onto his side, twisting himself deeper into the blankets of his bed. Aziraphale smiled happily at him and ran his hand down the demon's bare arm.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Must you ruin the perfectly good aftermath?"

"Yes, I must. I just can't help but think… Six thousand years, and the year before it all ends we finally…"

"Hook up?"

"I wouldn't put it quite so brashly, but yes. All that wasted time."

Crowley laughed and tossed his head back against a pillow. "We don't know that the world will end, Aziraphale. Remember Tadfield."

"I remember." Aziraphale sighed and leaned into his demon—_his_ demon, Aziraphale thought, and greed be damned. All the sins be damned.

Love, he thought, was a special case. It cancelled out the rest.

"It's nearly midnight," the angel whispered softly. "Stone will be worried, you know."

"Hm. Give her a call. Stay the night."

"I should be going, actually." Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley lightly on the lips. "I'll give you a jingle tomorrow, hm?"

"A 'jingle', angel?" Crowley sighed and pulled the angel in closer. When he was done, Aziraphale was smiling goofily again. "Whatever. See you."

"See you, then," Aziraphale said happily. He couldn't wipe that smile off his face.

----------------------------------------------

Jen hugged her legs to her chest, and let the rain wash down on her.

She didn't even care anymore, not really. Her mind was blank with grief and terror and heartbreak…

And pain is the best anaesthetic of all.

* * *

**an: That's as far as I've written so far, and I'll post more when it's done.**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five_**

* * *

There was a note on the door when Aziraphale arrived at the bookshop.

- 

_Zira— _

_My best friend just died. Gone out for a while, be back soon. God called, said he wants you to call him back. Don't look for me, do what he says, I'll be fine. _

_--Jen _

_- _

Aziraphale dropped the letter, shocked. 

"Poor girl," he whispered, staring at the dampening paper. What did she mean, "don't look for her"? Of course he was going to look for her. Who did she think he was? 

-----------------------------

Footsteps. 

Jen sighed and buried her head in her knees. 

"Zira, that you?" 

A warm, angelic hand grasped her shoulder. "I got your note." 

"What did the Metatron want?" 

"I haven't called him yet, Jennifer, I went looking for you." 

Jen rolled her eyes. 

"What, you didn't honestly think that I would just let you out here on your own?" 

"I'd hoped." 

"What happened, Jennifer?" 

"Car crash," she whispered. "The other driver was drunk, and John was speeding… The funeral's tomorrow, but I can't afford a plane ticket." 

Azirapahle sighed. "I'd be happy to give you a lift, Jennifer." 

"I'm not taking your money." 

"What about my wings?" 

"Is that even possible?" 

"If you hold on tightly," said Aziraphale with a soft smile. "Come, now, let's get you inside and warmed up, hmn?" 

"I'm fine." 

"You'll catch your death." 

"Good." 

"Jennifer!" 

Jen shook her head. "He was more than just my best friend, Aziraphale. You know how your relationship is with Crowley? Yeah, well, that's the two of us. Perfectly. I'm the doe-eyed, idealistic, hopeless romantic that fell for him… And half the time he just blows me off. His best friend. The only difference is, he doesn't love me in return." 

"Do you know that for sure, Jennifer?" 

"Yeah," Jen said. "I do. He's the reason I came to England, Zira. To get away, to get over him. Well, I'm over him now. Everyone is. He's six feet under." Her voice broke and she stared at the sky. She was miserable. 

"Jennifer…" 

"Do you know what it's like to be cursed, Zira?" 

"What?" 

"Cursed. Everyone leaves me, Zira. When I was seven, my best friend died. My childhood sweetheart moved to Colorado, half a country away. Most of the friends in elementary school secretly hated me, or they moved, or they changed into normal people. In middle school, things didn't even get that far. In high school… Well, there was Kerrie, who just started to bug me after a while—don't talk to her much, anymore. And there was John, the first friend I've had who didn't… And now he's gone." 

"That's not a curse, Jen—" 

"Yeah, you know, I think it is. I don't know what I did, or why my luck sucks so bad, but it _does_. That's why I read. If I fall in love with characters, I know that they'll never leave. That's why I love you and Crowley so much. You're my best friends now, you know that?" 

Aziraphale smiled. "Really?" 

"Yeah," she said softly. "Partially because I know you won't die on me, and partially because I know that you, Zira, at least, would never do anything to hurt me. You don't lie to me, or blow me off, or leave me out of things… You're my friend." 

"Jennifer—" 

"Thanks," she said sadly. "Do you have a towel?" 

He handed her the pink, fluffy one, and it was dry. Jen smiled. 

"Zira?" 

"Yes, Jennifer?" 

"I'm really glad I got stranded in your bookstore." 

"Er… Me too, Jennifer." 

----------------------------------

The bookstore had never seemed quite so quiet as it did when Jen and Aziraphale got back. It was small, Jen realized, and crowded, and cosy. 

They sat down on the couch together, both ready for some huge, momentous talk—but Jen just passed out on Aziraphale's lap. 

Aziraphale smiled sadly at her and stroked her hair pensively. He wished that he could ease her pain, if only a little bit, but the angel knew better. Death only healed over with time, and a lot of it. 

But Crowley! 

Finally! 

Despite everything, Aziraphale could hardly keep the smile from his face. Crowley had kissed him—maybe demons didn't love, but angels didn't lust, and Aziraphale had to admit that love wasn't exactly the sole thing on his mind that night. 

So there _was_ hope. 

Jen's hair was soft and frizzy under his fingers, and Aziraphale sighed. He loved her, too, although not in the same way as Crowley. Jen had become like a daughter to him in these past few months, and he liked to think— 

"Aziraphale?" 

The blue light glowed in the back room, and Aziraphale looked back. 

"Ah," he said, "The Metatron. Would you mind coming in here, please, and speaking a bit more softly?" 

--------------------------------------------

"I'm getting a _what_? 

"No, you don't understand, I don't need a protégé, I've already got—" 

"No, no, I understand, ineffable will and all that, but I've already got one young girl to look after, I can't say in good conscience that I'll be able to look after—" 

"Please, don't—" 

"Fine, I'll see him at noon." 

-------------------------

"You're getting a _what_?" 

"An apprentice," Aziraphale said. "And please don't dither like that, I'm trying to remain calm myself." 

"I don't dither," Jen said, dithering. "I worry. I _freak out_. What about me? Don't I count for something? Didn't you say you've already got a kid to look after?" 

"I asked that. Heaven said that they'd looked into you, and that you always appeared to be on the infernal side of the radar." 

"Hey!" Jen paused. "Okay, yeah, true that, but still. Insulting, coming from them." 

"I told them I had high hopes for you," Aziraphale said. "They said you were a lost cause. Too rebellious." 

"Damn right." 

Azriaphale smiled. "And that I couldn't truly call you a protégé. They're still sending the new angel." 

"When?" 

"Noon." 

Jen sighed. She fell back on the couch that, for some reason, adorned the front of the bookshop. She wasn't sure why it was there, really. The cushy chairs in the front made sense. The couch did not. Couches were very informal. 

Then again, this was a flat as well as a bookshop. There was a shower in the bathroom, now, and the kitchenette in which Aziraphale made his cocoa had expanded since her arrival. 

"I like it this way," Jen said. "Just the two of us." 

"So do I," said Aziraphale, surprising her. "But apparently that's going to change, so we'll have to make the most of it, hm?" 

"Yeah," Jen said. "I guess so. Wanna get breakfast?" 

"Alright. Do you mind if I… er, if I call Crowley first?" 

"No," Jen said with a grin. "Go ahead." 

He picked up the phone. "Are you quite alright, Jennifer? I mean, since…" 

"No," Jen said, "I'm not. My heart's all broken and stuff. But I'm used to that." 

-------------------------------

Aziraphale suggested the Ritz, but Jen wouldn't hear of it. 

"That's yours and Crowley's place," she said. "It's in the Book. Want pizza?" 

"For breakfast? Why?" 

"Why not?" 

And then they were sitting in the pizza joint down the street, and Jen was twisting her red-chequered napkin into pieces. 

"What's he gonna say about Crowley?" Jen asked. "You dating a demon and all?" 

"I don't know," said Aziraphale. "Jennifer, are you sure…" 

"I'm fine." 

"Yes, and that worries me. Your best friend just died, Jennifer." 

A look of deep, intense pain flashed on Jen's face for a moment. Then she shook her head, and her eyes closed briefly. 

"I don't wanna talk about that." 

"Jennifer…" 

"He broke my heart, Zira. Twice. I don't want to talk about it." 

"That rather seems the sort of thing—" 

"What are you gonna do, Zira? About Crowley, I mean. And the new angel?" 

Obviously she wasn't gonna talk right now. Aziraphale sighed and leaned back into his chair. "I don't know," he said helplessly. 

"The timing seems a little… too good, doesn't it? As if the guys Up There were just _waiting_ for you two to…" Jen smirked. "How far did you two get last night?" 

"Nowhere," Aziraphale said hastily. 

Jen raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, not _that_ far." 

"Yeah." 

"Maybe more than a little." 

"Mn-hmn." 

"Rather far, actually. Come to think of it." 

"Really?" 

"_All_ the way, actually," Aziraphale said, blushing. "I'd never done that before." 

The mortal girl laughed as a waiter came, bearing pizza. "The forty-year-old virgin has nothing on you, huh?" 

"I'm sorry?" 

"How was it?" She wasn't even going to try to explain. Crowley was right when he said that Aziraphale was stuck in the 1950's. 

The angel turned roughly the colour of a tomato. "It was the single most amazing thing I have ever done in my entire life," he said. "I don't know why devout mortals are forbidden sexual intercourse, quite frankly." 

"Incredible? Even with another dude?" 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "But I think that's because it was Crowley, Jennifer. I doubt intercourse would be quite as… well, as _divine_ with anyone else." 

"Devine, huh?" Jen said, and promptly burned her finger on a slice of three-cheesed fat and starch. 

Aziraphale lifted his pizza and paused. "You don't think that's why—" 

"Why they sent you this apprentice? I'd bet my soul on it," Jen said. "If I'm wrong, may I go to Heaven." 

"Er," said Aziraphale. "There's nothing I can say to that." 

"Good, that was my intention." Jen smiled, took a bite, and promptly burned her tongue. 

"Jennifer… What if I can't see Crowley anymore?" 

"Hm?" 

"What if this new angel, this apprentice, doesn't… I mean, I won't be able to introduce them for a long while, perhaps for…" He remembered the new Antichrist. He might _never see Crowley again._ "How am I supposed to tell that to Crowley?" 

"I can give him the message, if you want. Just give me a bottle of holy water for self defence." 

Silence. 

"Sorry, I shouldn't even joke about that." 

"No. It's bad enough knowing I have the power to utterly destroy the one I love, you know." 

"Yeah, bad taste." 

More silence. 

"It's funny," said Aziraphale softly. "There have been decades, you know, in the past, where I never saw him once. Centuries. And now… I'm nearly in tears at the thought that I'm not going to see him _today_. That last night might be the last night for a few years. I don't want that to happen." 

"It's called love," Jen said softly. 

"Perhaps. But I'm an angel, Jennifer. I'm used to love. This is more than that." 

"Call it lust, then. Greed. Maybe even gluttony." 

"I am _not_ a sinner." 

"No," Jen said, "You're human." 

"I'm not—" 

"Admit it, Zira. You can't hang around us humans without learning a thing or two," she said, and promptly took a sip of root beer that had totally and entirely been there the entire time. 

----------------------------------------------------

Then the final moment of perfection was over, and the two of them walked slowly back to the bookshop. 

"This is it," Jen said. 

"I suppose," the angel replied. 

"Zira, if you ever need me to do anything for you and Crowley… Just ask." 

"I will. And my name isn't Zira." 

"I don't want things to change," Jen said softly. 

"I'm sorry, Jennifer," Aziraphale said. 

They were at the bookshop now. As they stood there, half-procrastinating, the windows flashed softly blue, and Jen winced. 

"He's here," Aziraphale said. 

"Yeah," she muttered, and her hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment, and then she opened the door. 

There was a stare, and a gasp, and some sort of Latin curse bubbled its way out of Jen's lips. Aziraphale barely had time to catch a glimpse of golden hair before Jen slammed the door shut yet again. 

"Crap," she said succinctly. 

"What was that, Jennifer?" 

"I'm staying the night at Crowley's," Jen said, feeling like the drug-free equivalent of speed mixed with alcohol, and walked off before Aziraphale had anything to say about it. 


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter Six_**

* * *

Crowley was sleeping again, dreaming happily of feathery angel wings and chocolate. Then the door to his apartment slammed open, and he was jolted out of the REM stage in fear.

"Nice wings, demon," Jen said sarcastically, standing hands-on-hips in the doorway of his bedroom. "I'm staying here tonight." 

Crowley realized that he was clinging to the ceiling and floated down, the image of nonchalant. "What? Why?" 

"Because Aziraphale was just assigned an apprentice, my best friend died, and you're the only other being in England that I feel comfortable rooming with," Jen said honestly. "I'll take the couch, if you want. Just don't make me go back there." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I'm in love," Jen said. "That's why." 

She noticed the way that Crowley's hands clenched slightly, how his spine stiffened, and grinned. Ah, jealousy, old friend… 

"Not with Zira. With someone else. I'm just phenomenally unlucky, that's all." 

"Oh," Crowley said, and looked at his shoes in embarrassment. "Right, then. Make yourself at home, and kindly allow me to return to my afternoon nap." 

"Thanks," said Jen. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. 

---------------------------------

Aziraphale walked in, glancing behind him as he did so. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, confused. "That was my assistant, Jennifer. I don't know what came over her. Are you my new apprentice?" 

"Yeah," said the new angel. "Er. I'm John. Was that…" 

--------------------------

Jen sat on the couch and began to stare at Crowley's plants. She wondered if he'd hate her for helping him out a little bit… 

"Wait, what's this about an apprentice?" 

"An angelic apprentice," Jen said. "Sent by Heaven. I need a drink, Crowley." 

A wine glass appeared on the table, and Jen took a gulp gratefully. 

"Another angel, then?" 

"Yeah," Jen said sadly. "I took one look and bolted for the night." 

"What about Aziraphale? Will I be able to see him again soon?" Crowley winced internally at his words. He sounded like some lovesick teenage boy. Demons didn't act this way. 

The mortal girl grinned. "Yeah, you will. This kid's not like other angels, I think. His name's John." 

"Thought you didn't see him." 

"Yeah," Jen said, "but I know him." 

"How?" 

"My best friend died a few days ago," Jen said. "Then I walk into the bookshop and there he is, alive and on the wrong side of the planet and trying to take my place in Zira's life." 

She waved an empty glass at him. "Fill me up." 

-----------------------------------

"Wait, what did you say her name was?" 

"Jennifer Stone," Aziraphale said. "Why?" 

"Am I in England?" 

-----------------------------------

"Dead," Jen said, "And gone, and back again…" 

"At least yours," Crowley replied, "yours, yours, he _can_ die." 

"And come back!" Jen shouted, waggling a finger. "He won'. Won' leave me 'lone. I don' wanna love him, Crawley…" 

" 'San 'o' in it," Crowley slurred back. "Gimme anudder bottle." 

---------------------------------

"Why didn't she _tell _me she was living with an angel?" John lamented, falling back on the random couch. "Here I was worrying about Jen, worrying that she was whoring herself to some creepy old man, worrying that she's being raped in the alleys or something… and it turns out she's living with an _angel_." 

"She did tell you, actually, I believe." 

"Well, I didn't take it _literally_. She's an atheist, how was I supposed to… Er. How does that work, exactly? Is she Christian now?" 

"No. She's a very stubborn atheist, and it's in our Arrangement that I can't convert her." Azriaphale said. 

"Sounds like Jen," John said with a half-grin. "Well, this is an interesting… situation." 

"Yes, I suppose. Please excuse her, John. I'm afraid she's going to be a bit… hostile for a while. She seems to feel that this new apprenticeship means you'll be taking her place, and…" 

"She gets jealous easily," John said. "Yeah, I know." 

"I suppose," said Aziraphale. "Although she's never been jealous of Crowley." 

"Who?" 

"Oh. Er, nobody. Would you like some tea?" 

------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale and John kept talking, and Crowley and Jen kept drinking. 

Night happened, and then Dawn occurred, and time went on. 

----------------------------------------------

Jen awoke to the feeling of warm demon flesh on her cheek. She snuggled up to Crowley momentarily, content and happy and warm, and then her eyes shot open. 

"Oh, _shit_." 

Crowley rolled over and yawned. "Morning, angel." 

"I'm not an angel, Crowley, I'm a mortal girl." Jen sighed. "Dammit, we were so _slammed._" 

"Jen? Why are you naked in my bed?" 

"Crowley, what the hell am I supposed to tell Zira?" 

His eyes widened. "Crap." 

"Yeah." 

"He'll be crushed." 

"You think?" Jen sighed. "Tell me you used protection." 

"I don't—" 

"Crap." Jen glared at him. "Well, I guess that's what happens when you trust a demon. Can't say I'm mad, just… ah, crap. See you, Crowley." 

"What, you're leaving already?" 

"Yeah," Jen said. "To get a preggers test." 

"I don't think you're—" 

"Obviously not," Jen said. "But I happen to know how the female body works, thanks, and I wanna be sure. I'll tell Zira to call you, but I won't tell him about… Yeah. Our little secret?" 

"Yeah," said Crowley, sighing. "Demons don't apologize, since that's good and all…" 

"I know." 

"But I'm sorry." 

Jen shrugged. "Don't worry about me," she said. "Actually, that was pretty mind-blowingly awesome. I can see why he—er. But worry about Aziraphale, if he ever finds out. Because… he really loves you, Crowley, and I know what real heartbreak feels like. I don't want that to happen to Aziraphale." 

* * *

**an: Yes, I know it's sue-ish, but... work with me here, okay?**


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter Seven_**

* * *

A pregnancy test felt odd in Jen's pocket. It was the kind of thing that she'd never expected to need—she didn't want kids, didn't want to marry, didn't even particularly want to date anyone. One-night stands really were more her thing, only the demon was going entirely too far.

But there it was, all the same, and she'd have to hide it for a few days before she could use it. That's how these things worked. 

If she _was_… Well, a contraceptive or a quick trip to Crowley would take care of that. She was sure he was well-practiced in non-invasive abortions. 

Or something like that. 

She was walking back… home. To the bookshop. When it had become home, she wasn't sure—but it was. 

And there was someone else living there now. 

John. 

Back in high school, he'd spent half his time at her house. Jen had always secretly wished that he'd move in, just because she loved _being_ with him so much. She'd never met someone that she could never get tired of before—it was new. 

Well, wish granted. They were living in the same place now. 

She still loved him, dammit. She still couldn't get tired of him. She still felt her heart jump every time he answered the phone, still thought of him more often than was probably healthy… 

She didn't _like_ it, and damn the poets. Love was only a good thing when it was returned. 

She reached the bookshop. 

--------------------------------

Aziraphale sat, reading, with a cup of cocoa next to him on the little table in the kitchen. It was sipped down halfway and Jennifer cold. 

John was bored and surfing the Internet. All his old accounts on Facebook and Myspace were still there, and he was debating whether or not he should log on. He was dead, after all, but it was _tempting_… 

The shop bell went "ding". 

John and Aziraphale looked up at the same time, and Jen walked through the door. She gave John an unfathomable glance, and smiled warmly at Aziraphale. 

"Hey, Zira." 

"My name isn't Zira." 

"And… John. Hi." 

"Hi," he said. "Jen." 

"Never thought I'd see _you_ again," she added, friendly and bubbly as ever. "Zira, got any more cocoa?" 

----------------------------

Johnael was his "official" angel name now, but he hated it. After all, Johnael, as Jen was only too happy to point out, was a rather girly name. No self-respecting _American_ man would ever call himself by a girl name. 

"It's not _my_ fault," John whined, sitting at the table as Jen and Aziraphale drank their tea. "They just gave it to me." 

"Yeah," Jen said, "But it's still a sissy name." 

"Says the one in the skirt." 

Jen looked down. In all honesty, she'd forgotten about the skirts. Aziraphale had just kept miracling up the same old-fashioned clothes that he had on that first day, and she'd acclimated to the style. In fact, she rather liked the style. 

"What's wrong with the skirt?" she asked. 

"It's girly." 

"It's English." 

"Even the English have better taste than that." 

Aziraphale looked hurt. "I thought it was rather stylish," he said. 

"I like it," Jen said. 

"You _hate_ skirts," John reminded her. 

Jen shrugged and looked at her tea, caught between her two worlds. America was supposed to be half a planet away—why was she suddenly feeling like a high school girl again? She was someone new here, someone she liked. Someone who didn't wear cargo pants or straighten her hair or wear contact lenses, who didn't smile when she wanted to cry or laugh at dumb puns that weren't even _punny_. Here, Jen was Jennifer, someone she'd always really wanted to be. 

Why was she suddenly reverting back to her high school self? 

"Jen, if you wanted something more modern…" Aziraphale began, but Jen shook her head. 

"John, I've grown up a lot since high school. I'm not some little sixteen-year-old skater chick anymore, okay? I'm twenty, I'm happy, and I don't need you butting in on my life." 

John stared. "What?" 

"Yeah. For once, I don't want you here. John, you're like a brother to me, but you're _dead_. This is _my_ world, _my _bookshop, _my _angel—so why did you have to come and ruin it, huh?" 

"I thought I was your best friend, Jen." 

"Well… I dunno, John. I've got a lot of thinking to do, okay?" 

And then she got up, grabbed her tea, and stalked to the back room in a brood. 

John and Aziraphale sat there, dumbfounded. 

"You didn't see how hard she took your death," Aziraphale said. "I think that she needs a bit of adjusting." 

"Adjusting, my ass," John said. "What did I do _this_ time?" 

"She gets jealous," Aziraphale said. "You've known her longer than I have." 

"But she loves you more," John said softly. "Because she's jealous of _me_. I've never seen that before." 

"I think," said Aziraphale, "that she just needs some rest." 

"No, she's _mad_," said John. 

"Your call," Aziraphale said, but he was doubtful. 

-------------------------------------

Jen had, during a phase in high school, worn stereo headphones around her neck twenty-four-seven. She'd listened to music—usually Elton John or John Lennon or Rob Thomas—whenever she could, but the presence of the headphones had felt good for some reason. 

She wasn't sure why, but Jen had packed her music in the bottom of her Bag O' Books. This was good, considering that it gave her a way to shut out the world around her. 

So instead of hearing Aziraphale's persisting knock on the door, she heard "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." Instead of looking at the ceiling or into the mirror that had been nailed up across from her cot, she consumed herself into her dog-bitten, into-bath-dropped, tape-ridden copy of Good Omens. 

And wondered how bad it would be, really, to live with a demon instead of an angel. 

--------------------------------------

"Jen, it's been eleven hours. Surely you must need to change your music player's batteries by now?" 

Silence. 

"Some food, then?" 

More silence. 

"The _bathroom_?" 

Which didn't work. Aziraphale looked helplessly at his now-asleep apprentice—who technically didn't need sleep, but wasn't it one of Aziraphale's own creators who said that form had the power of suggestion?—and sighed. 

"Some cocoa?" he asked in near sarcasm. 

"…Only if it's got marshmallows," Jen said from behind the door. 

-----------------------------------------

Jen sipped her cocoa thoughtfully, resentfully. She kept glancing across Aziraphale's shoulder at the sleeping angel. 

"He broke my heart, Zira," Jen said softly. 

"I'd gathered," said Aziraphale softly. "Jen, love is—" 

"Don't tell me about love," Jen whispered. "Yours isn't unrequited, Zira." 

"What, my love?" 

"Yes, your love. Crowley loves you in return, and John thinks of me like… I dunno, like a sister or something. It's almost more than I can bear to live with, only I know what happens when you die." She nodded at John's sleeping form. 

"You wouldn't kill yourself!" 

"No, I wouldn't. Suicide's the quitter's way out. But it's tempting." 

"You… resist temptation." 

Jen heard the double meaning in her friend's voice, and shook her head. "I wouldn't put it that way. I'm stubborn." 

"You're a good person." 

"I'm a writer." Jen shrugged. "Aziraphale, I know what you keep looking for—some sort of good Christian quality in me, and you aren't gonna find it. I'm mildly sadistic, easily bitten by jealousy, envious, definitely lustful. Angry at the world. I'm bitchy and I'm a liar, I'm possessive, gluttonous, manipulative… Hell, Zira, I'm a writer." 

He nodded. "Yes, Jennifer. A writer. And you always write happy endings." 

"What?" 

"No matter what happens, they always turn out alright in the end. Your stories always have happy endings." 

Jen shrugged. "No, they don't. I just choose to end the written portion of the story at a happy point, that's all." 

Aziraphale smiled. "He's worried for you." 

"So?" 

"So don't you think you should talk to him?" 

She reached over and knocked him on the head a few times. "Hello? That's Zira in there, right? Not John?" 

"Stop it, Jennifer." 

"Because that sounds _exactly_ like something John would say. That I have to resolve problems that only time will heal through talking it out." 

"Time won't heal this, Jennifer. You need to hear his side of the story." 

"I _know_ his side of the story! He didn't _do _anything, Zira. He can't help that he got stuck down here, and he can't help who it is he falls in love with. And… same here. Listen, I'm gonna resent him a while. Only time's gonna change that, and John's just gonna have to deal with it." 

"But you love him," Aziraphale said. 

"Yeah," Jen said. "And that just makes matters worse." 

"How?" 

"I said. Because it's unrequited." Jen sat there a moment, silent and pensive. "Because, for the past two years, I've been trying to cure that." 

Aziraphale sighed. "Jennifer…" 

"Don't, okay? I don't like love, Zira. Love makes things really complicated, that's all. Me loving John sort of ruins the friendship. Me loving my parents made it nearly impossible for me to get my ass over here. Me loving stories made it impossible for me to focus on real life—" 

"And that turned out well for you." 

"Yeah, well. Still, there are issues involved here. I almost envy Crowley. He's a demon—they can't love." She bit back the words as soon as she said them—Aziraphale looked hurt. 

"He can love very well, thank you." 

"Er." 

"Crowley isn't quite like other demons, Jennifer." 

"No, I know. Bad choice of words. I meant… well, most demons can't love. Crowley's almost human at this point." 

Azriahphale sighed. "I—I'm sorry, Jennifer. That struck a nerve, I'm afraid." 

"He loves you, Zira." 

"I can't be sure of that." 

"Duh. You're involved." Jen paused, thinking back to the morning-after bit she'd had to endure with the demon, and wondered if maybe—no, telling Aziraphale about that was a bad idea. Even if the angel was the first one Crowley had thought of, even if she _knew_ Crowley cared more about the angel than he did about himself… It was a bad idea. 

"Listen, Zira, trust me on this. He _loves_ you, okay? It's in the way he looks at you." 

Aziraphale sighed. "Do you think… Oh, I'm being silly. It's only been a day. I can go one day without talking to him." 

"You love him. It's hard not to get obsessive." 

The angel shrugged into his cocoa. "I don't even… Jennifer, there's something I need to tell you." 

"Hm?" she asked over her mug. 

"It's not good news." 

"Never is." 

"The world's going to end in roughly a year." 

Jen paused. She set her cocoa down gently on the table and glanced at John. A thousand thoughts and questions flashed through her mind, each one begging to be said… 

Her throat choked up a bit. 

Then the moment was gone. Jen looked Aziraphale in the eyes and sighed. 

"Again?" she asked. 

* * *

**an: You can tell I have no life. I wrote most of the past three chatpers today...**


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter Nine_**

* * *

"And we don't know who he is, this second Antichrist?" 

"No." 

"Could we ask Adam?" 

"Ask Adam what?" 

"Who the Antichrist is?" 

Aziraphale stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. "I don't know. I suppose." 

"You hadn't even thought about finding out, had you?" 

He shrugged guiltily. Of course he'd _thought_ about it. Actually, he'd thought about it a good deal more than was probably necessary. It had been eating at his conscience since he'd heard. 

Aziraphale had just decided… not to look for the new Antichrist. He'd decided sometime before midnight, the last time he'd seen Crowley, that he wanted to make use of this last year. With Heaven and Hell against them, with the Second Apocalypse on the way, spending their last year searching… It just seemed like too much. He wanted to use this time to… 

Well, to be in love. 

But, perhaps, that was idealistic. Jen was giving him a look that sort of brought things into perspective. He couldn't waste this final year on being happy. That was selfish. He had to look out for others. 

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "I have thought about it, actually, and…" 

"And?" 

"And I'm not sure, Jennifer." 

"Not _sure_? How can you not be sure? This is the end of the world we're trying to prevent, here!" 

"We've only got a year left, Jennifer," Aziraphale said. "And… I want to use that time to my advantage." 

"What?" 

"I'm in love, Jennifer." 

"_What_?" 

"I can't just—we've only got a year left together, and I just—" 

"Yeah, one friggin year. Zira, if you don't fight, he'll be _gone._ _Forever_. Or you will be. It's one year, or however long it takes them to start over. Okay? So if you wanna let him die, fine. Whatever. I'll search on my own time. You go and do the selfish thing—" 

"Jennifer, I—" 

"And I, the _atheist_, the amoral, female, inexperienced teenager—I'm the one who's gotta do the job?" Jen shouted, standing. There were tears in her eyes, and her knuckles were white in fists on the table. 

"Jennifer!" Angels didn't get mad, but now Aziraphale was yelling, too. It was the first fight he'd ever had with her. 

"You can't just sit back and play house while the world ends, Zira!" 

"I'm not—" 

"There are _real _lives out there! People with real lives, however mundane!" 

"Jennifer, I really must protest—" 

"People who will _die_, Zira! We aren't just a playground, a battlefield, we are _real_!" 

John made a noise on the couch, and the two stopped yelling. 

"What's going on?" the new angel asked sleepily, looking towards the kitchen. "Jen?" 

Angel and atheist stared each other down, furious. 

"You can't treat us like we're disposable, angel," Jen said softly. "And I'm not going to let you and your little boyfriend just sit down and let the world end. And… remember, okay? Eternal Heaven, eternal Hell, it doesn't matter who wins, Zira. If you spent this last year gallivanting around with Crowley, it's going to be the last year the two of you ever have. If you fight this, you'll have eternity. All or nothing. Even if you wanna be selfish, even if you wanna lay down and let love run your life, remember _that_." 

"Jennifer…" 

"I thought you were a guardian angel, Aziraphale. Get your damn priorities in order." 

And she stalked back into her room. 

John sat up. "What the hell was that about?" 

Aziraphale sat and put his head in his hands. "Don't swear, my dear," he said. "It's not angelic." 

"Is the world really ending?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"We have roughly a year." 

"Are you gay?" 

Aziraphale gave John a Look. "Angels are sexless unless they make a special effort." 

"But you have a boyfriend." 

"Yes. Why are you asking me—" 

"You're supposed to be my mentor, I'm not allowed to ask questions?" 

"Later would be better," said Aziraphale. "I need to go visit an old colleague of mine. Can you promise not to get yourself inconveniently discorporated while I'm away?" 

"…Big words." 

"Er. Promise not to get yourself killed." 

"Only if you make Jen promise not to kill me." 

* * *

"Crowley!" 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

"Crowley, open the door!" 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

He let his fist drop from the door of Crowley's flat. "My dear," he said, "_please_ open the door. I need to speak to someone. I just got in a terrible argument with Jennifer, and… Please, Crowley, open the door. I need to talk with you, to see you again." 

He paused. 

"Goodness, that sounded cliché. I apologize. But I suppose you aren't in there, are you? And I'm speaking to an empty door. Oh, what my life has become." 

Aziraphale sighed and turned, looking down the hallway that doubled as a balcony—the door of Crowley's flat opened to the outdoors and a pathway, three floors up. The angel leaned against the door, trying to memorize the feel of wood on his back. You didn't feel that in Heaven. You didn't feel anything in Heaven. It was all metaphysical. 

"I'm talking to a door," Aziraphale repeated. "Telling it about the first fight I've ever had with the woman who's moved into my shop, about that… the angel that I'm supposed to train—I can't train an angel, I've hardly got the job down myself. I can't even… oh, dear. I can't even get in touch with the man—man-shaped being—I've gone and fallen in love with, and now I'm talking to a door." 

He knocked his head against the door. 

"Crowley, please open the door. Please. I need you to be home." 

* * *

Crowley leaned against the door and listened, wishing he _could_ open it. Only… 

Then he'd have to comfort the angel, and if he was found comforting an angel it would mean his head. The most he could do was sit here, and listen, and feel the heart that he wasn't supposed to have… 

Break.

* * *

Jen left her room. 

John saw. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

"Where's Zira?" 

"Left to go somewhere." 

"Are you serious?" 

"Why are you so mad at me?" 

"Because!" 

You could practically hear the cowboy-standoff music in the background. The stare between them could have melted steel. 

"I didn't _do_ anything, Jen!" 

"Yeah, that's kind of the issue! I _did_. I got out! And now you come in here, one of my old ties to America, and I was someone new, and now I'm not…" She sighed. "Forget it, okay? Listen, I'm sorry. This is sort of my thing, and I'm happy, and then you just sort of barged in and mixed everything up. Stuff was going great, you know?" 

"What?" 

"Listen, there's something about Aziraphale you should know." 

* * *

The angel stayed at Crowley's door for hours, which presented a problem. He couldn't just _leave_ the angel there, but letting him in would alert Hell. He didn't want to do either. 

So, eventually, Crowley decided to feign sleepiness and went to get the door. 

* * *

"So the book's real?" 

"Yeah." 

"Mammy loved that book," said John sadly. It sounded weird, hearing an angel say that. Jen had forgotten what he'd called his mother. 

"Missing your mom?" 

"Yeah." 

"I thought you hated your parents." 

"A little." 

Jen felt her heart melt. He had that helpless expression on his face again, the one that made her feel all sympathetic for him. She hated that face, just because she loved it so much. 

"I'm sorry you got dragged over here," Jen said softly. "And I'm sorry I was mad at you. You're going through a lot, aren't you?" 

"You think?" 

Oi vey. Why wouldn't he stop giving her that _look_? He _knew_ she was a sucker for that, he _knew_ it made her all melt-y and stuff, and he was still giving her that thrice-damned look! Why was he doing that? 

"Stop doing that," Jen said. "I'm mad at you." 

"Stop doing what?" John asked, pouting. 

"That… face." 

"What about my face?" 

"Damn your face," Jen said. "I'm gonna go find Zira." 

"Fine." 

"Fine!" 

* * *

Crowley sat on his couch, looking at his plants and feeling awkward. Next to him—half on top of him, actually, since the angel's head was on his lap—Aziraphale ranted tearfully about his friend. 

"I'm not being _too_ selfish, am I?" 

Oh. He was needed. 

"No," Crowley said. "You're a good… person, angel." 

"And I've been treating her like my own _child_, how could she be so ungrateful?" 

"She's a teenage girl. It's their job." 

Aziraphale glared at him. "You aren't even paying attention." 

"Angel, it's a small disagreement. You'll kiss and make up in a few hours." 

"It was hardly a small disagreement!" 

"Really? So it was a full-fledged battle, then? Both of you had your wings out, waving little flaming swords around, fighting to the death the way we used to?" 

"Jennifer doesn't have wings, Crowley. She's mortal." 

"Oh, you know what I mean. Aziraphale, she's right. You know that, don't you?" 

The angel sighed. "Yes, I suppose. I just… Oh, it sounds so _cliché_, but I wish I could stay like this forever." He nuzzled into Crowley's lower stomach, smiling. 

Crowley giggled. 

Aziraphale stared and sat up. "Are you _ticklish_?" 

"No. Shut up. Tell no one." 

Aziraphale poked him. 

"Stop it!" 

Aziraphale poked him again, and Crowley squealed like a little girl. Soon the demon was on the floor, laughing his head off and trying in vain to shield his midsection from Aziraphale's tickling fingers. 

The door opened. 

"Uh, am I interrupting something?" 

Angel and demon sat up, hair a-muss and faces red. 

"Er, hello, kid," said Crowley, snatching a comb from nowhere and fixing his hair hastily. 

"Were the two of you just having a tickle fight?" 

"It was an epic battle between the forces of Heaven and Hell," said Crowley defensively. 

"Whatever you say." 

"What brings you here, Jennifer?" Aziraphale asked in an awkward tone. He couldn't exactly act mad at her after that entrance. 

"I thought that this was where you'd run off to," Jen said. "I just wanted to ask for Adam's address, actually. Then I'll be on my way." 

Aziraphale stiffened. "On your way? For how long?" 

"However long I have to stay in Tadfield," Jen said. "I'll be back, I promise. But I need to speak to Adam." 

"Sure," said Crowley. "I'll come with you. I want to help." 

Jen glanced at Aziraphale. 

"I'll come, too," Aziraphale said. "I apologize, Jennifer." 

"Zira, I can find this kid on my own. It took a human last time, remember? You don't have to help if you don't want to." 

"I want to." 

Jen smiled softly. "Fine. Cram the four of us into the Bentley and let's get going." 

"Four?" 

"What, did you think we were gonna leave Johnael behind?" 

* * *

"If you call me that one more time, _Jennifer_, I will shove this halo up your ass." 

"Language, John," said Aziraphale from the front seat. "And you don't _have_ a halo yet. You're an apprentice angel. You don't even have wings." 

"Yeah, Johnael." Jen dodged the new angel's punch in the back seat of the Bentley, half-falling into Aziraphale's lap in the process. 

"Will you two shut up?" Crowley snapped. 

Jen laughed. "Sorry. You see what my parents had to go through?" 

"Yeah, you _always_ caused trouble. I was the good kid." 

"Since when have you two been related?" Crowley hissed. 

"We're not," Jen said. "He just spent a lot of time at my house in high school." 

"You're acting like you're in high school," Crowley muttered, and Jen felt her face pale. Why was it that she defaulted to her high school self around John? She hated her high school self. Her high school self was annoying and immature. 

"Am not," Jen muttered, deflating back into the Bentley. 

"Do you remember the way this time?" asked Aziraphale primly. "I'd rather not have to run over someone again." 

"That was an accident," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, and the demon relaxed a bit. John coughed awkwardly. 

"So you two really are from that book, then?" 

"Apparently," said Aziraphale. "I've read what's left of Jennifer's copy a few times, and it's startlingly accurate." 

"How would they know that?" asked John. 

"I have no idea," said Aziraphale. "I didn't recognize the authors." 

"You got it with you?" Crowley asked. Jen pulled a plastic bag from her purse. 

"You actually have it with you?" asked Aziraphale. 

"You keep it in a plastic bag?" asked Crowley. 

"Shut up," Jen said. "It's well-loved." She handed it to Crowley, who immediately let go of the wheel of the Bentley. The back seat screamed. 

"Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, huh?" Crowley asked. 

"Hands on the wheel, man!" 

"Relax. Demonic powers. Hey, they look familiar…" 

"Gah! What?" Jen leaned forward, fighting G-forces, and glanced over his shoulder. "You mean Neil and Terry?" 

"You know them?" 

"I wish. I saw Terry Pratchett eat a sandwich once, though. At a book signing. How are they familiar?" 

Crowley shrugged. "Not important." 

"Very important. If our superiors discovered that book, Crowley…" 

"Or if they use the web," Jen added. 

"Or if they use the Internet, then… Oh, if they discovered…" 

"What, that you two are in love and all?" 

John looked uncomfortable again. He was vaguely homophobic. 

"Yes, well, and that we've been working together for the past few thousand years," Aziraphale said. "We could be in serious trouble." 

"Honestly, Zira, when did you turn into such a pansy? What happened to the kick-ass angel at the end of the world?" 

"He had nothing to lose," said Aziraphale. "And I have everything to lose." He glanced sadly at Crowley, who pretended not to notice. 

"So how do you know them, then?" 

Crowley shrugged and handed her the book. He gripped the wheel again, and an audible sigh of relief flashed through the car. 

"You remember that Sunday after the buggered-up Apocolypse, angel?" 

"Of course," said Aziraphale. "The most apprehensive day of my life." 

"Yeah. Couldn't even drink properly. You left the nightclub around ten, remember?" 

"You own a nightclub?" Jen asked. 

"Yeah," Crowley said. "You went there the first night you met me, remember?" 

"Seriously?" 

"Didn't you wonder how you got away without being carded? Anyway, I was without a drinking partner, and there were these two guys in the corner of the bar…" 

"Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett," said Aziraphale. "Oh, Crowley, you didn't." 

"Yeah. Neil had this thing written, this little story about a snake and an angel… Showed it to me, and somewhere in the back of my brain I realized how similar it was to the first time I met Aziraphale. Events went downhill from there." He sighed. "I suppose they weren't as drunk as I was. They wrote a book out of it." 

"So it's entirely accurate, then?" Jen asked. "The novel?" 

"Not entirely," Aziraphale said. "A few tiny details were off. Our personalities were a bit skewed, once the authors put themselves into the story. And I don't recall making cocoa while I read the prophecies. And… they got the date on the Bentley wrong. And it was my idea to fight Armageddon, not Crowley's." 

"Other than that, yeah," said Crowley. "Oh, and they left out the checkers." 

"Checkers?" John asked. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Long story." 

"It was in the script version," Jen said. "He challenged you to a game of checkers—he won, you'd help him fight. Am I right? How'd that fit into the book?" 

"What?" said the immortals, entirely in sync. 

"Oh. Checkers is just something the two of you do, then?" 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Well. I played against Aziraphale to decide on whether or not we'd be Warlock's godfathers…" 

"I won," said Aziraphale smugly. 

"You cheated," said Crowley. 

Silence. 

"I don't think that they ever doubted that they were writing a work of fiction," said Aziraphale. "They probably thought you were a raving drunk, Crowley." 

"Probably." 

Silence. 

John started humming "Yellow Submarine". 

"Crowley, music. Please. Before he starts singing." 

"You guys mind Motzart?" 

"Not at all," said Jen. 

"With vocals by Freddie Mercury?" 

* * *

"Tadfield six-double-six, right?" Jen asked, forehead pressed against the window. "That's the address?" 

"Yes," said Aziraphale, who was beyond asking how she knew these things. He could only assume it was in the book—er, his book. He'd read the phrase in paperback fantasy novels before, but he'd never thought it could apply to him. 

"Er, keep in mind, Jennifer, Adam has grown up considerably. He's—what, twenty now? Don't expect the child in the story." 

"Twenty-seven?" Jen asked. "Hard to imagine. Did he marry Pepper?" 

"Yes, actually. They have a daughter, too. Lillith." 

"Figures." 

"And a son," Crowley said. "Jesus. Twins." 

"Are you serious?" 

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "Adam wanted to be entirely… neutral." 

"Hey, you think one of them is the new antichrist? You know, Satan's grandkids?" 

"It's a possibility," said Aziraphale. "But I doubt it. They're only a few years old." 

"Sounds like something off The Maury Show," said John. "My father's the devil and he slept with my wife. Like that one episode where the mom was paying her daughter's fiancé to have sex with her." 

Crowley grinned. 

Aziraphale sighed. "Honestly, Crowley." 

"I told you that Americans didn't need my help. Honestly, angel, I'm surprised you didn't get transferred there." 

"The woman was obviously lonely." 

"She was horny," said Crowley, and put his arm around the angel when Aziraphale winced. John coughed. 

"Homophobe," Jen said. "So… give me the 411 on what happened between the buggered-up Apocolypse and now?" 

"Adam attended college, briefly, and dropped out when he failed a theology class," said Crowley. "Pepper still attends Tadfield's local college, while he stays home and raises their twins. When the Youngs moved to London, he bought the family home, where he and Pepper moved it. I get a Christmas card from them every year, usually addressed to me _and _Aziraphale." 

Aziraphale blushed. "Was I really that obvious?" 

"Angel, the last time we stayed at the same hotel you wanted to share a room." Crowley glanced at him over his sunglasses. "You _cheated_ to try and avert Armageddon last time, just to spend more time with me." 

"Lies." 

"You blush like a tomato every time our eyes meet." 

"Oh, shush," said Aziraphale, red.

* * *

The drive went on. 

Jen decided that she was a fan of Bach's _Bohemian Rhapsody_. 

* * *

The old house in Tadfield was depressingly suburban. Jen had been expecting an old, fancy English country home. 

It could have been found in the suburbs of America, if it hadn't been for the general sense of chaos that surrounded the house. 

"Pepper lives here?" 

"Surprising, isn't it?" Crowley asked. "I had her pegged as a Londoner." 

"Surprising she's married in her twenties. I had her pegged as one of those eternal virgins." 

There was a beat-up old Ford in the driveway, and an assortment of children's toys in the yard. Horribly mistreated flowers dotted the garden—begonias were strewn across the grass, mutilated pansies lined the walkway, et cetera. 

"Lemme guess," Jen said, glancing at the flowers as they ambled up the path. "Pepper took up gardening." 

"I think she _tried_ to," said Aziraphale. "Oh, those poor flowers." 

Crowley shrugged. "She didn't have to terrify _all_ of them." 

John looked entirely lost. "What?" 

"Crowley's a gardener," Jen said. "I thought you read the book, John." 

"I did, but I don't remember every single inane detail!" 

"Like I said," said the mortal girl. She rang the doorbell. "You need to brush up on your literature if you want to understand any of our conversations." 

"Not to mention your history," Crowley said. "Take a leaf out of Dorian Gray's book and study up." 

"Don't," said Aziraphale. "The poor chap killed himself, if I recall." 

"Only because he was an idiot," Jen said, and rang the doorbell again. "Everyone knows not to stick a knife in a portrait if it's got your soul in it. Or if he'd just come out of the closet, gone out with Hallward, and run away to Paris to live happily ever after, he'd have had a happy ending. Is Adam even home?" 

"He wasn't in love with Hallward, Hallward was in love with him. Dorian Gray loved Harry. Crowley, what day is it? Perhaps Adam's at work." 

"I think that was the issue, angel," said Crowley. "And I don't know why he'd work on a Saturday. Family outing, maybe." 

"The car's in the drive," Jen said. She rang the bell again. "But I dunno how many cars they have." 

"Maybe they're in the basement or something," John said. Everyone looked at him. "You know, where they can't hear the bell…" 

"John, this is _England_," Jen said. 

"What?" 

"Huh?" 

"What does that have to do with—" 

"Hello?" An exhausted woman answered the door. Her hair was red. Pepper. "I'm sorry, Lillith was doing strange things with crayons… Can I help you?" She looked Crowley and Aziraphale over. "Do I know you?" 

"We're associates of Adam's," said Crowley. "Is he home?" 

"No, he's at the pub with Brian and Wensley," said Pepper. "I'd be there, too, but our sitter's got a date tonight, and everyone knows how precious social lives are to teenage girls. Are you sure…" 

"We're never met before, miss," said Crowley firmly. "Thank you." 

"Because you look like—" 

"Goodbye," said Crowley, and shut the door. Azriaphale rolled his eyes, said nothing, and suddenly all the plants in the yard were growing beautifully. 

"Must you, angel?" 

"As the Arrangement warrants," said Aziraphale, mock-coolly. "The pub, hm? Perhaps we should have asked directions…" 

"It's the Lords and Ladies," said Crowley. "Two blocks over. Serves Shoggoth's Old Peculiar, best drink this side of Heathrow." 

There was a moment of stunned silence. 

"What did you expect?" Crowley asked. "I can tell you every drink between here and London, and their specials besides. Who d'you take me for?" 

Aziraphale shrugged. "Was that the place we went to during the Hundred Years' War? With the little cherries on the mugs?" 

"Yeah." 

"Right, you were supposed to pay for that." 

"I'll pay this time, then." 

"Buisness, boys," said Jen. "Not pleasure. I'll buy you both a drink if you just stay focused, a'ight?"

* * *

**an: Damn and its bizzarre love of deleting page breaks.**


	9. Chapter 9

**_Chapter Nine_**

* * *

The Lords and Ladies Tavern was, in fact, the first real English tavern that Jen went to. It was dingy and badly lit and smelly, and everything that Jen had hoped a tavern would be. Also, it appeared to be karaoke night.

"I always though that karaoke was a States thing," she said, glancing at the half-asleep drunk man with a microphone. "You know, Americans like to make fools of themselves onstage. It's kind of our thing."

Aziraphale chuckled, snaking his hand into Crowley's. The demon coughed awkwardly and sidled away, but he didn't let go.

"I'd never do karaoke," said John. "God. Too embarrassing."

"Lord's name in vain," said Aziraphale.

"Sorry. What, am I not allowed to break the commandments now?"

"You were before?" Jen asked.

"No," said Aziraphale. "Johnael, angels don't break the Name's rules."

"Says the one dating a demon?" Jen asked. "This is why I'm an atheist. You religious blokes are too bloody confusing."

"Jen," said John, "You're walking around with two angels and a demon. How can you still be—"

"There's Adam," said Crowley, pointing.

* * *

They got a table not-too-far away from Adam's and Brian's and Wendsleydale's, and Jen ordered the promised round of drinks. They leaned back and waited.

"Why don't we just go up and talk to them?" Jen asked, sipping her beer without much enthusiasm.

"Oh, yes, that would work wonderfully. Hello, Brian, Wensely, remember us from the last Apocolypse? It's happening again and we were wondering…" Crowley rolled his eyes behind the eternal sunglasses. "Kid, I doubt they'd believe a word we said."

"Sounds fine to me," she said, shrugging. "But I'm a writer."

"You always use that excuse," said John.

"What excuse?"

"That you're a writer. You do everything because you're a writer. That's, like, your justification for life."

"And it works, too." Jen took another gulp of beer. "Because I am. And. And. And writers, you know, rock."

"You haven't even had a full drink yet," said John. "No way are you drunk."

Jen shrugged and tipped her chair back, watching Adam's table. She did a double take. Brian and Adam kept looking in her general direction, laughing, and jeering at Wensley. Ah, no. They wouldn't…

Brian stood, dragging his friend with him. Wensley appeared to be protesting, and strongly.

"You dudes _owe_ me," Jen said softly, giving the three man-shaped beings at her table a very pointed look. Crowley was the only one who got the memo, and stood. When the angels had made it clear that they were oblivious, he dragged them away from the table.

Jen smiled warmly as Wensley approached. "Can I help you dudes?"

Brian shoved Wensley forward. "Come on, man."

"I—er. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure. You boys wanna take a seat?" Jen batted her eyelashes in a disgusting manner. She hated acting feminine.

"Both of us?" Brian asked, trying to escape.

"Why not?"

* * *

"We just left Jennifer with those two young men—" Aziraphale protested, glancing back. "If they take advantage—"

"Jen can handle herself," said Crowley. "And we need to speak to Adam privately."

"It's not like they want to f—er, have sexual intercourse," said John. He was learning. "She's _Jen_."

"Believe it or not, Johnael," said Crowley, "She's mildly attractive."

"Dude. Don't tell me these things."

"Jennifer is—Ah, Adam Young? May we have a moment?" Aziraphale smiled graciously, wringing his hands together.

Adam smiled. He ran his index finger along the rim of his glass, craning his neck a bit to see how his friends were faring. They seemed to be a bit out of their depth—Jen was flirting heavily with both, batting her eyes and flipping her hair and speaking in low tones. "That your girl?" he asked.

"She's not my girl," said John, a little too quickly. Adam raised an eyebrow.

"Alright," he said. "Wot can I 'elp you with, then?"

"You remember us, right?" Crowley asked. "Er."

"Yeah. Messin' people about."

Aziraphale coughed. "Yes. Er. That was us."

"And you didn' listen to me. I said. No more messin' about."

"Er, no. We had our orders, from respective bosses." Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. "Adam, we need your help."

"Why?" he asked, leaning back to look at his friends. Brian was _definitely_ out of his depth, although Wensley, surprisingly, seemed to be growing comfortable around her.

"Adam? Pay attention, please, this is important. Adam, the world is going to end again. There's another Antichrist."

"Ah, really?" He seemed unfazed. "Hadn't noticed."

"So you don't know who he is, then?" Aziraphale asked, a little put out.

"What? Of _course_ I know," said Adam. "Your Antichrist's at that table over there."

There was a pause. Then, in eerie unison…

"What?" all three immortals asked.

"At the table. An' a hint—it innint Brian or Wensley. 'Scuse me, I think Pep's gonna 'ave a mental breakdown if I don't get 'ome soon." Adam stood. "Oh, and you're welcome."

"Thanks," said Crowley, vaguely stunned. Something in him was aware of the irony.

* * *

"Well, that's a relief, right?" Jen said, shrugging. "Because I have no intention of ending the world."

"I went to high school with the Antichrist," said John. "Or one of them."

"Snap out of it," said Jen. "Okay, listen, if I'm really… dude, that's kind of fucking awesome."

"Language," said Aziraphale.

"Fuck it," said Jen, shrugging. "I'm the Antichrist, remember? I think, Zira, I should be allowed to swear."

"Jennifer, please don't let this go to your head…"

"I won't. I'm just saying." Jen sighed. "Well, that's a load off our backs, huh? No more worrying about the end of the world. Back to the Bentley."

"You just found out that you've got more power than _we_ do, and that's all you've got to say?" Crowley asked. "You could change the world!"

"And end it. But I won't be doing either. I like being human, thanks very much. Shall we go?"

"Jen!"

She sighed. "Okay, look, do we really have to talk about this, like, _right_ now? I'm the one who got the news dumped on me. I really don't want to think about it." Jen paused. "You know what? I need another drink."

* * *

Which meant that everyone got terrifically drunk.

Which meant that there were issues the next morning.

Jen opened her eyes and regretted it. She was outdoors for no good reason, and it was a sunny day.

"Zira?" she asked, rolling into the scratchy bed below her. "Zira, turn the sun off."

Scratchy?

Jen sat up. She was in a haystack.

Buck naked.

With John next to her. Thank someone he was clothed.

Hello, issues.

"John?" she asked. "John, wake up."

"Hmnah?" He groaned. "My head is in pain. Can't angels, like, just poof it all away?"

"John, I need clothes."

"What the hell?"

"Language, _angel_. Can you miracle up some clothes for me?"

"What? Why?"

"Because I seem to have misplaced my clothes."

John waved his hand, and suddenly Jen was sporting a frilly pink dress. She slapped him on the arm. "_Johnael_."

"_Jennifer_."

"The antichrist," she said, a tad too loftily for John's taste, "Should not be sporting a frilly pink dress. I look like a cupcake."

"Cupcake of doom," said John. He sighed and sat up, shaking hay from his hair. Jen half-melted. There was something annoyingly beautiful about John when he was just waking up—something soft in his features.

Ah, well. The dress would have to do. "John, where are we?"

"Why the hell would I know?"

"Because I don't," she said. "John, how are we supposed to get back to the bookshop if we don't know where we are?"

"Ask Aziraphale or his little boyfriend." He sighed and sat up. "By the way, why is he dating a demon?"

"John, Zira and Crowley are nowhere to be found."

John looked. They weren't there. He sighed. "That's… that's a problem."

* * *

**an: More OOC-ness of Zira and Crowley... Ah, well, I'll try not to do that in the future. And yes, I know, more Mary-Sue-ness on Jen's part... Where you're just gonna have to trust me, okay? I hate Mary-Sues, so I'm trying my hardest not to write one... but this is part of the plot. So... trust me. That's all I can say without giving anything away.**


	10. Chapter 10

**_Chapter Ten_**

Aziraphale woke up in the Bentley, curled up into one of the seats. He was warm, and tired—and content. His feet were bare, for no apparent reason, and Aziraphale curled his toes into the soft that surrounded him.

Blanket.

Right, then, he was covered in a blanket. A nice blanket. A warm blanket. Why?

Aziraphale mumbled something that even he didn't quite understand, and rolled over. The blanket fell away from his eyes, and light flooded in.

"Crowley? My dear, where are you?" Odd, wasn't it, that his was the first name that came to mind. It hadn't always been that way. He hadn't always…

Er.

Well, perhaps it had been that way for the past few decades or so. Ever since the Tadfield Apocolypse, and the eleven years preceding it. Ever since he'd actually spent time with the demon… _Well_, Aziraphale thought, _I'm rather lucky, aren't I?_

There was a dark shape in the passenger-side front seat, and it stirred. A smell that Aziraphale had come to recognize as alcohol expelled from the body, vaguely different from normal alcohol, wafted off it.

"Crowley?"

"Angel?"

"Hmn." Aziraphale half-rose from his corner, yawning. "I don't believe I've slept in the past few decades. I'd forgotten what it was like to dream."

Crowley yawned. "What was the dream?"

"I don't remember." Aziraphale shrugged. "Good, though. Where are Jennifer and Johnael?"

Crowley snaked over the seat, arching his back impossibly. "Hmn?"

"If I recall correctly, we helped them back to the Bentley and… You decided not to drive with two drunk teenagers in the car?"

"You wanna go ninety miles an hour in Central London with a drunk girl giving you a lap dance?"

Aziraphale sighed and kissed him briefly on the lips. Crowley rolled his eyes. "You know, you could go the speed limit, my dear."

"Nah, I like it here…" Crowley kissed Aziraphale in return, holding the angel close…

But Aziraphale pulled away. "Not the time nor the place, Crowley," he said, a tad regretfully. "Where are Jennifer and Johnael?"

Crowley shrugged upside-down. "I do not know," he said. "Check outside the Bentley. Maybe they've finally got together and they're rolling around in a ditch somewhere."

"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale soothingly. He was mildly worried.

"Demonic influence, you know," Crowley added, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You're in a good mood this morning."

"Yes," said Crowley. "A very good mood. A splendid mood. A terrific, fantastic, _wonderful_ mood. Haven't felt this good since the fifteenth century."

"What happened in the fifteenth century?" Aziraphale asked, wracking his brain for some special event. None immediately came to mind.

"It wasn't the fourteenth," said Crowley. Ah. That would be a good reason to like the fifteenth century, then. Aziraphale left the car. "Angel?"

"Crowley, we have a problem," Aziraphale said. "Er."

"What? Wait, where're…"

"We seem to have misplaced the antichrist," said Aziraphale. "Again."

Crowley sighed. "And the good mood is gone. What, should we look for them?"

"Well, I'd think so." Azriaphale sighed. "Angels can sense other angels. Perhaps I'll be able to sense Johnael."

"Go for it," said Crowley. He wished demons could do that. It would make life a lot easier. He wouldn't have to watch his back every time he went Down There, for instance. Hastur was still out to get him.

"He's about… Oh. My. What did they _do_?"

"Where are they?"

"About two miles outside of Bristol," said Aziraphale. "Goodness."

"That's on the other side of England," said Crowley. "What the Manchester did they _do_?"

* * *

"So I gotta ask, angel," Jen said. She'd picked up Crowley's nickname, which she probably should have felt something about. "What's Heaven like?"

"I thought you didn't believe in Heaven."

"No," Jen said. "Meaning I doubt I'm gonna see it. So what's it like?"

"What?"

"Heaven. What. Is. Heaven. Like? Shiza, _Johnael_, whatever happened to angelic intelligence?"

John glared at her. "It's shiny," he said. "Like, a silver city. Mainly marble, steel. All the offices are where the angels live, and they're all full wood interior."

"You sound disappointed." Jen laughed. "You were expecting, what, platinum penthouses with golden bathrooms?"

"A little bit. Ruler of the universe, you know, he could indulge."

* * *

They walked. And walked. And walked.

"Where the _hell_ are we?" Jen asked.

"I don't know, Jen, that's why we're looking for inhabitants."

"You mean people."

"Sure." John kicked at a rock. "Maybe we should try, like, hitchhiking."

"Hitchhiking?" Jen asked.

The first person to stop was an English trucker, which Jen hadn't even known _existed._ He wouldn't let John in the truck, which earned him a punch and a kick to the groin. When he was finished howling in pain, he drove away.

"What kind of sicko finds a dress like this attractive?" Jen asked.

"Well, it's short," said John.

"It's hideous."

"And kinky."

"Oh, you think it's kinky, do you? That why you miracled it up for me?"

"Shut up, _Jennifer_."

* * *

Jen stuck out her thumb, trying to attract attention and blend in with the English countryside at the same time. There was a balance between looking sexy enough to pick up and homely enough to actually get _home_.

John was acting angelically useless, which pissed her off even more that she was already.

Although, admittedly, he probably wouldn't attract any more attention than she would.

"Did you have to make it pink?" Jen asked, sticking out her hip in what she hoped was a semi-attractive manner. "Because you know I hate pink."

"You can take it off if you like."

"What, do you wanna see me naked?"

"No. I'm scarred for eternity already, thanks."

"No problem." Jen sighed. "Can't you change it?"

"What, the nudity? Don't they have operations for that?"

"What? No, the dress! Into, I dunno, what Zira usually miracles up for me?"

"Why would you _want_ that? It's old-fashioned. And he's got a strange affinity for tartan."

"Tartan rocks. And why would I want _this_?" She sighed. "Forget it, I'll get Zira to whip me up something decent when we get home."

"Jen, I'm never going home."

Awkward silence. Jen scratched her nose thoughtfully.

"I meant the bookstore."

"That's not home."

"To you," she said. "The bookstore's home to me. It's the best home I've ever had, and you don't deserve to live there. Okay? I'm still mad at you, by the way."

"Fine."

"Furious, in fact."

"Don't care."

"Might just have to inconveniently discorporate you."

"What?"

"Temporarily kill you. I can do that, you know. You won't die or anything."

"I would _kick your_—"

"Language."

"Fine, _smite_ you." John glared at her. "When did our fighting get so serious?"

"I dunno. When'd you turn up in Soho, again?"

There was a whine like an engine in the distance.

Another awkward silence.

"So… They _are_ dating, then?"

"Zira and Crowley? Yes. You read the book."

"A while ago. Didn't strike me as a couple."

"Hm. Nor me, actually, but… You gotta get to know them." Jen sighed. "You can't tell, you know. Anyone. Because they really love each other, and if you told someone Up or Down There, they'd be split apart and never allowed to see each other again and most likely tortured…"

"Not Aziraphale," said John, confused.

"Zira, too. Ever heard of Gomorrah? Trust me, they'll be punished."

"Then why are they dating?"

Jen gave him a Look, which had been perfected over the years. Her eyebrows were raised slightly, with hair falling into her face as she looked over her shoulder at him.

"How someone like you got to be an angel, I'll never know," Jen said. "John, they're in _love_."

"Love be damned, they're in serious danger."

"Love's worth it," she said softly. "According to Aziraphale, anyways. And I'd like to believe he's right." She looked at the road. A small black dot was advancing towards them, which was a good sign.

John looked uncomfortable again. "Jen, you aren't still…"

"Don't ask that question." She looked away, focusing her eyes on the road.

"Jen, you aren't still crushing on me, are you?"

"I said not to ask that question," she replied. "I think that's the Bentley."

"You are, aren't you?"

_Lie_, Jen thought. _Lie, like you always do, get out of this conversation, don't hurt him…_

Because if he knew how badly he'd hurt her, she'd hurt him, too.

Only she couldn't lie to him.

"No," Jen said. "I'm not crushing on you, and that's what scares me."

John was silent. Even _he_ couldn't have missed the implications in that sentence.

"Yeah, that's the Bentley. Good. I can get the hell out of this dress."

* * *

"Need a ride?" Crowley asked, pulling up to the side of the road. "Headed for, what, a ballet?"

The angel looked at her worriedly. "Jennifer, what happened to you?"

"Please tell me that you two have my clothes in there somewhere," Jen said.

Aziraphale blinked.

"Thanks," said Jen. "What happened? Last thing I remember, you two were singing Bohemian Rhapsody off-key in two-part harmony."

"We're not entirely sure," said Aziraphale. "Come on, you two. Nothing's wrong, I assume?"

"We're fine," Jen said, plastering on a smile. But her hands couldn't stop shaking as she climbed into the back seat, and she sat as far away from John as she could.

The drive from Tadfield, to Jen, seemed considerable longer than the drive to Tadfield. She didn't say a word the entire trip, too busy staring out the window and remembering.

Random memories flashed behind her eyes.

The Belize trip and the golf carts, with John driving her nearly to death over potholes bigger than Jen was. Drysuit snorkelling in the 30-degree-farenhieght pond in her old front yard. Drama class. The Florida trip. Scuba diving together, Jen's mother making cookies, John with cookie dough splattered across an innocent expression, Guy Dijon…

It was all so random, so stupid. Who floored a golf cart on a mountainous Belizean roadway? (John. Jen had the scar to prove it.) Who went diving in a drainage pond in December? (John. His drysuit had been previously peed in, so he'd had to switch suits.) Who dressed up like a French stripper in the middle of school and named himself after mustard?

Actually, that had been a mutual friend's idea. But John had _done_ it, and played the part infamously.

He was such an idiot sometimes. She loved him for it. For his flaws, his monotonies. He wasn't perfect, and she loved it. Loved the constant struggle for power, the differences between them. John was a good little Catholic boy, raised in a good little Catholic family, with good Catholic principals.

Jen was an atheist, a scientist, his polar opposite.

Yin and Yang.

Sometimes Jen wondered if that was what had drawn her into a brand-new copy of Good Omens in the first place. The similarities, the patterns. Jen liked patterns, especially holistic, random ones. They made the world make sense to her.

And, however big an advocate she was for chaos, it was nice to have things make sense once in a while.

* * *

"Zira, you wouldn't have Brian's and Wensley's phone numbers, would you?" Jen asked, midway through a good Demon/Angel rant on Napoleon of France. They both turned back to look at her, causing John to squeal and grip the side door of the Bentley.

"Er…" Aziraphale sighed. "Why did you want their numbers?"

"I think I had them at one point, but they were in my skirt pocket," Jen said. "Dammit. Wensley was actually mildly cute."

John groaned loudly. "I don't need to hear these things!"

"What bugs you about it so much?" Jen asked. "I'm female, _Johnael_, or did you forget?"

"At least you _have_ a sex," John muttered. "I've gotta make an effort."

Silence.

"Did you ever remember," said Crowley, "_Why_ he decided to start a land war in Asia? Your influence or mine?"

"Yours, I'm sure."

"I don't ever remember mentioning it to him," said Crowley. "And _you_ were his good, old-fashioned lover boy…"

Aziraphale sighed. "I've told you six thousand and ninety-two times, Crowley, he was unconscious and it is _not_ my fault that they hadn't invented CPR down here yet."

"Unconscious? Kinky, angel."

"Oh, _Crowley_!"

"Napoleon and Aziraphale, one unconscious in a tree," Crowley crooned, leaning away gleefully from Aziraphale's slap-questing hand. "Kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-ehn-gee…"

"Oh, shut _up_."

* * *

It wasn't until later, when Jen was rummaging through her underwear drawer, that she remembered the pregnancy test.

She winced.

Not yet. Later. After a few days, maybe. It took… What, three, four, five? She could wait. She could totally wait. She shoved it into the back of the drawer, trying to forget about that.

* * *

"Angel," Jen said, half-waltzing out of the back room—she'd come to think of it as "her" room, really, and it half-was. "Angel, I need a drink."

"That's Crowley's line," said Aziraphale, smiling. He was sitting at the table in the kitchenette, filling out paperwork with a golden pen. "I can't at the moment, Jennifer. I'm filing a report for Heaven."

"Hm, actually using the name for once?"

"Why don't you go with Johnael, my dear?"

Jen glanced at John, who was moodily flipping through one of the younger Bibles. He looked at her over the top of the book pensively, and she couldn't fathom his expression. Did he want to go, or did he not…?

One way to find out. She hoped he didn't.

"What d'you say, angel?" Jen asked, switching nicknames at the drop of a pin. "Care to go for dinner with me?"

"Not a date?" he asked warily.

Jen rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "Dinner. Food. Hopefully something alcoholic."

"Alright," he said, laying the book on the table, wide open and pages down. Jen winced.

"John! Close the damn book or use a bookmark, do you have any idea how old that thing is? You'll kill it!"

"It's a book! They aren't _alive_!"

"Blasphemy!" she said, and Aziraphale blinked. The book was closed, a white bookmark gracing its pages. "Fine, that solves that. C'mon, I want pizza and a drink."

It was very awkward. Jen and John sat at a table and didn't say a word until they ordered.

The teenage girl took their menus, and then they stared at the table for a few minutes.

"So…" said John. "I gotta ask. You're hanging out with two old gay dudes. How the hell did that happen, Jen?"

"Oh, Zira let me in from the rain one day," Jen said. "I never really left."

Silence.

"So I gotta ask," Jen said. "Do you miss being alive?"

"What?"

"Technically you're dead," Jen said. "I'm the only person from your life that you'll ever have contact with. Ever again. That's gotta be a fun feeling."

"Not really."

"Sarcasm, angel." Jen sighed. "Seriously, are you doing alright? You only died a few days ago. Don't you wanna know how your mum's doing? Your dad? Hell, what about Kerrie?"

"I don't really wanna think about it, okay?"

"I can call them, if you want."

"Jen."

"If you need."

"Jen, I'll be fine." He looked away, running his hand through his hair. A bit of Jen's heart melted into nothingness. "So you're in love with me, huh?"

"Yeah. My bad." Jen sighed. "I'm really sorry, John. I hate love, you know? Hate it. Love complicates stuff. Holds you back."

"Didn't stop you from running off to England on a whim."

"No," Jen said. "But there was nothing really keeping me back. Mum and Dad're only a phone call away, and, honestly, Zira and Crowley kinda fill that void. (Tell them that and die, by the way.) Kerrie and I have had issues for eons."

"It was always the three of us," said John. "You can't just let that die—"

"It died a long time ago," said Jen. "With you, actually, but don't get all guilty about it. I used to hang with Kerrie because she was a writer, too. One who lived down the street, one who mildly understood me. Someone I could be fun with."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You were a helluva lot more mature," Jen said softly. "I was false with Kerrie, constantly acting the part of a teenage girl. Constantly laughing when I didn't want to. With you, I could be serious, too. And… I'm a serious person, a lot of the time. I grew up, I guess, and so did you. Kerrie didn't."

John leaned back in his chair and looked at the darkening sky. "So you ran off to England?"

"I've always wanted to," Jen said. "Nothing was holding me back. So… yeah, I left. Nothing was holding me back anymore. I didn't have you there, and my parents were… Well, they'd always be there. Kerrie wasn't exactly a tether anymore… What else would have kept me in America?"

"The freedom?" John asked. "Those rights you were always fighting for? Patriotism?"

"I'm a citizen of Earth," Jen said. "That's patriotic for me."

There was another moment of silence. Jen looked around the restaurant awkwardly, and her eyes rested on a couple in the corner. They were sitting close and kissing. She could tell where the evening was headed.

John turned his head. "Ah," he said. "Gotta love young love."

"It'll end in heartbreak," Jen said.

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at him and look at her. She's no smarter than a block of wood, and he thinks she's hot. I can guarantee you, John, he's seeing at least one other girl on the side, and she's completely in love with him."

"Nobody would cheat on someone that hot," said John. "And he's not exactly ugly. How d'you know she isn't cheating on him?"

"Her eyes," Jen said. "See, they're all doe-like and fluttery. And his are sly and… Er, a bit lazy. They keep dropping. To her _chest_. Trust me, it'll all end in heartbreak."

John turned to say something else, and their eyes met. Jen looked away quickly, and John pretended not to notice.

There was another awkward silence.

"I was reading some of the Shakespeare in the shop," said John. "Not bad when you understand it."

"Fucking incredible," Jen said, nodding.

Silence.

"Listen, Jen—" he said.

"I'm sorry," she said.

At the same time.

They paused.

"Jen, I'm sorry. You know I don't…"

"I'm like your sister. I know. Like I said, I can't help it."

"I _do_ love you," John said. "Just not in a romantic way."

"Must you remind me? I'm trying my hardest to get over you, you know. It's hard, that's all."

"You've been trying since Junior year of high school," said John. "Jen, I—"

"Don't say it, alright?" Jen said. She stood. "You know what, cancel my order. I'm tired, and I'm gonna go home."

"Jen, we still have to pay—"

She flipped him the bird.

"Such a romantic," he muttered.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Chatper Eleven..._**

When John returned, Jen and Aziraphale were sitting in their usual chairs at the table.

He looked awkwardly at his mortal friend, but she seemed to have forgotten about the incident at the restaurant. Jen grinned happily, and, he suspected, falsely.

"Hey, um, all," he said.

"Aziraphale thinks you need Miracle Lessons," said Jen. "Because you need to tune your innate sense of right and wrong, or something. Can I sit in on them?"

"Uh, sure," said John. "Miracle Lessons?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Sit. Jen, could you make some tea?"

"Can't you miracle them up?"

"Tea isn't until Lesson Sixteen," said Aziraphale. "We're only on Lesson One."

"Never act rashly in front of an old wrinkly smiling man? Or something?"

Aziraphale stared. "I say," he said, "How on earth did you know that?"

* * *

Crowley was troubled.

This was all too easy. Neither Heaven nor Hell made _that_ bad of a mistake—shouldn't they have been keeping an eye on Jen or something? Would they have _really_ just let her wander right into Aziraphale's arms?

It just didn't make sense.

They had an Antichrist hanging out with an angel that was known as tainted, a demon-gone-soft, and they sent a _newbie_? Honestly, there was no sense in…

In any of this.

There never was, never would be. So he picked up the phone to give the angel a "jingle", as Aziraphale had so expertly put it, and was only mildly surprised when Hastur popped out of the telephone.

"Hallo, Crawley," said Hastur evilly, and grinned like he'd gone slightly mad.

Crowely gulped.

* * *

Aziraphale and John were in the middle of Lesson Three: Getting Tough Stains Out of White Robes when the senior angel jolted.

"That was odd," he whispered.

"Ghost pass through you?" John asked. He'd been prone to random shivers in his mortal life.

"No," said Aziraphale, and he shook his head. "I felt as if… As if half my heart was being torn out."

"And you describe it as odd?" Jen asked, raising an eyebrow as she leaned on the table. "Because that hurts. I'd know."

John shifted in his chair.

"It was only for a moment," said Aziraphale. "And it's silly, really, I'm not even sure I _have_ a heart. I've never really been opened up, you know."

"Zira, maybe you should call Crowley."

"Why?" Aziraphale asked. "I mean, there's no reason, and…" He glanced at the clock. "It's only been a few hours since we last saw each other, isn't that a bit early to call? I'm afraid I'm not very good at—"

"Call it a hunch," said Jen. "I'm a writer, okay? There are patterns in stories. If half your heart just got ripped out for a moment, you better call Crowley."

"But—well," said Aziraphale. "I mean, if you insist…"

"Jen, that's ridiculous," said John. "Ghost passed through him. Shivers. That happened to me all the time when I was alive."

"Yes," Jen said. "When you were alive. Not when you're dead. Zira, pick up the damn phone."

* * *

"Been a while," said Crowley, trying to keep his eyes on his… er, fellow demon, perish the thought, while searching for an escape. Thoughts zapped through his mind like lightning, each more ridiculous and pointless and suicidal than the last.

The phone rang again. Crowley reached for the receiver. Maybe, maybe, if Hastur was stupid enough…

Nope. His hand was slapped away by a lick of flame.

"I know beh'er than that," said Hastur. "You 'member wot I told you after you went an' liquidated Ligur? Yeh. Well, now I'm doin' it on _orders_." He grinned.

The phone rang. Crowley gave it a longing look, trying to think. It was his second line, according to the blinking light, and only Aziraphale had that number…

So _close_. All he needed was some holy water and some good luck. He was out of both. Crowley closed his eyes.

"So it's Hell for me, then?"

Hastur laughed. "You should be so lucky," he said, and snapped his fingers.

There was a whorl of flame—

* * *

"He's not answering," said Aziraphale. "On either line. He's probably out, Jennifer."

"Or in Hell," said John. "In pain."

"Pessimist," said Jen.

"Oh, I'm a pessimist?"

"Hell, yeah." Jen grinned. "Pessimism is the way to go. Always expect the worst, and then anything else comes as a pleasant surprise."

"That's optimistic."

"Perhaps." Jen sighed. "Try him again."

"If I must." The senior angel pressed a number, and another, and then there was a blue light.

He looked up.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, my. I hope I'll be right—"

There was a sound like _zzhlip_, and he was gone.

Jen shivered, once, then looked at John. "I think," she said, "That we need to check on Crowley. Wanna bet that just happened to him, too?"

* * *

Crowley opened his eyes and was mildly surprised. He was back in his flat, in his warm bed, with an angel by his side. Aziraphale snuggled up to him, happy and cosy and perfect, and Crowley found his hands snaking through the golden hair.

He kissed his angel's neck as his hand began to caress its way downward, entirely in a habit that hadn't really needed to form… and stopped.

This was odd.

"Angel?" he asked softly, looking into the back of Aziraphale's head. He couldn't see much else. "Angel, are you alright?"

There was no motion. A sudden, terrible memory surfaced, one of his few from Heaven—

Carasel, dead, stabbed in the chest and thrown from a tower in the Silver City—

Dead, really _dead_, the first angel to ever die. There had never been a second, although Lucifer had come close.

There had never been a second, only there was no light in Aziraphale's eyes, and a dark stain on the bedsheets. Crowley grasped the angel's shoulders and turned him over. He looked away violently.

Not inconveniently discorporated. _Dead._

The demon didn't have a heart, but it went and slipped out from underneath him anyway.

* * *

"How are we gonna get there? Crowley's flat's a bit of a distance, Jen."

"Cab?"

"I want to drive the Bentley."

"The Bentley's at Crowley's apartment, _Johnael_."

"Don't use the teacher voice on me. You aren't even a teacher."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

"What?"

* * *

Aziraphale woke up in Heaven. He was not dead. He was not that lucky.

Heaven was white, which Crowley teased about—"I thought you said racists were _ours…_"—and it was silver. The Silver City hadn't changed since Aziraphale had been there last. It was remarkably resilient to change.

His head hurt. That was odd. Angels never felt pain, not in Heaven. Not that they couldn't, it was just that there was rarely a cause for it.

"Angel Aziraphale," said someone. "You have been condemned by the Name for consorting with a demon. You have been condemned by the Name for stalling Armageddon. You have been condemned by the Name for messing about with the Great Plan. You have been condemned by the Name for sodomy. How do you plead?"

Aziraphale groaned and looked at the random angel in front of him. "Maion?" he asked.

"How do you plead?" Maion asked. It was beautiful, glowing with the soft fire-like tint in the skin that came with living in Heaven. Aziraphale had forgotten about that fire. It had faded in him a while ago.

His head hurt.

"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "Could you repeat that last bit?"

* * *

"We need a plan," said Jen, sitting head-in-hands on Crowley's couch. "Alright? We need a plan. To get them back."

"Back from where? We don't even know where they _went_."

"Heaven and Hell, respectively, I'm assuming." Jen was biting back tears, only she didn't think John noticed. He did. "How 'bout I go Up, you go Down, and we return with our respective charges?"

"Uh, yeah. Maybe I should go Up. I'm the angel. You're the Antichrist."

"Right, yeah. But…" But Jen wanted to rescue Aziraphale. It seemed wrong to let John rescue one of her closest friends, while she went and got the demon instead. It was a stupid idea, childish in its nature. But Jen couldn't really help that.

"Hey," she said, "Why don't we both go Up, then?"

"You?" John asked. "In Heaven? Hey, the Apocolypse really _is_ coming for us."

"You shut up."

"I'm just saying, it doesn't make sense. You won't exactly be welcome."

"Screw it," said Jen. "You aren't rescuing Zira without me."

John raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because he's one of my closest friends," said Jen, "And I can't just leave him there. That's why."

"That's reckless."

"And so am I. Take me to Heaven, angel, I haven't got all day."

* * *

Crowley woke up violently. His breathing was rough—he didn't need to breathe, but there was a protocol that came with waking up from a bad dream. He didn't' sweat, either, or feel cold; but he was doing both at the moment.

Terrible, terrible dream.

But a dream nonetheless. Here was Aziraphale, alive and well, tangled in the covers next to him. Crowley sighed and placed his hand on the angel's shoulder.

"Aziraphale?"

"Mmn?" Aziraphale rolled over and opened his eyes adorably. Crowley wished his heart would just stop beating. It didn't need to beat like that whenever Aziraphale woke up, no matter how adorable the angel looked.

"Angel, are you alright?"

The eyes shot open. "I—Oh, dear."

"Aziraphale?"

"Where am I?" The angel sat up, clutching the blankets to his naked form. "I—What happened?"

"Aziraphale?" Crowley repeated. "Are you alright?"

Those beautiful blue eyes met the yellow ones. They widened in fear.

"Who are you?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley's heart went and slipped out from underneath him again…

* * *

Aziraphale screamed. There was pain, sheer _pain_, pain like heartbreak and unrequited love, running up his arms and through his legs, pain cracking through his skull and tearing out the feathers of his wings…

"Will you repent?" someone said, off-vision right. The voice was female, and kind, and gentle.

The pain stopped for a moment. Aziraphale breathed in relief.

"Will you repent for your sins?" the female voice asked.

The relief was short-lived. Aziraphale closed his eyes and whispered, "I have not sinn—"

And then he was screaming again.

* * *

Crowley, somewhere in Hell, heard. But the visions of death went on behind his eyes, unmerciful and unfading. His conscious didn't even register the sound of ultimate suffering.

* * *

Jen heard. John heard.

They were on the street outside Crowley's flat. Nobody around them seemed to notice the ear-splitting shriek of pain. Figured.

"That was one of them," said John. "Dude, it sounds like, out of The Princess Bride. Sound of ultimate suffering."

Jen glared at him. "Not the time for pop culture references, angel."

"Stop calling me that."

"Sorry." She sighed. "I'm a little high-strung. Er. How do I…"

"Er." He gulped, straightened up, and wrapped his arms around her. Jen's face went red.

They shot upwards and vanished from reality.

* * *

Remember that line from the book? Hell may have all the best tunes, but Heaven has the best choreographers? Jen had never really understood that line, since the book later claimed that Aziraphale was the only angel able to dance.

She understood it when she actually _got_ to Heaven.

Each angel moved as if choreographed. The Host was practicing—Host? Wasn't that Lucifer's scene?—above the Silver City, dipping and swirling in waves of angelic perfection. There were loads of flaming swords, which made Jen wonder why Aziraphale had never gotten a replacement.

The City really was silver. Tall, ornate towers spindled into…

The Dark. It surrounded the City.

Jen remembered another Gaiman story, and it sent shivers down her spine. Murder Mysteries. The story was… accurate, to the point of freakiness. Crowley wouldn't remember that, would he?

She wondered if the story was true. She wondered if…

The scream sounded again. Aziraphale. Jen and John exchanged a look.

"Where do they hold prisoners?" Jen asked.

"What makes you think I'd know that?"

"You're the angel, don't you know this stuff?"

"Jen, I've only been dead a few days."

They paused.

"Okay, whatever, follow me." The mortal took off at a run, and John had no choice but to follow.

"How would you know where to go?" he asked, keeping up easily. Jen was no good runner, and she had lungs.

"I… don't. This… way's… good as… any."

"Fine," said John, and they ran on.

* * *

"Repent."

"I love him."

"Repent."

"I _love him._"

Repent.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him I love him I love him I love him…

It was a mantra inside of Aziraphale's head, the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. He'd always known there would be punishment, true, but why _now_?

When everything had been so _perfect_?

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and through the pain he thought of Crowley. He thought of yellow slitted eyes and the glint of sunglasses, the feel of demon skin on his hands and…

"Why are you smiling?"

Aziraphale looked his tormenter in the eyes. "Because I am holier than thou," he said softly. "I have done _nothing_ wrong. I am in love, and nothing you can do will hurt me for that."

He was waiting for the next bout of pain, Crowley's smile engraved behind his eyelids in defence…

And it never came.

Aziraphale blinked, confused.

"You truly think you love him?" Maion asked, smirking. "You really believe he loves you in return?"

Aziraphale said nothing. Yes, of course Crowley loved him. He knew that, even if it had never been said. It wasn't something that needed to be said.

"Alright, whatever. I'm calling in Zephkiel. I can't deal with this right now."

* * *

**an: Too cliche? Too predictable? Too common? Too fast-paced? It's too _something_, I just don't know what...**


	12. Chapter 12

**an: A note before you read this chapter... If you've read "Murder Mysteries", a Neil Gaiman short story, you'll understand more of this than others will. If you haven't read "Murder Mysteries", no problem. You'll merely be at a disadvantage, but it shouldn't impede your understanding of the story. Also, John uses the word "orgasmic" in this chapter. His RL version has been saying this lately for reasons unknown.**

**Okay, you can read now.**

They stopped in front of a big door.

"Wonder what's through here?"

"Jen, you aren't really going to—"

She shoved it. It opened.

* * *

Jen found herself in a white room, dressed in a simple white robe. Her hair was lank and unwashed around her face, which was certainly not how she'd had it a moment ago—it was never lank, never unwashed. Jen was a fan of hygiene.

She looked around.

"Random," she muttered. When a response failed to happen, she realized John was gone.

"John?" Jen's brow furrowed out of reflex. "Where are you?"

"He's fine."

"Well. Random voice from behind me. White room. Last thing I remember, I was in Heaven. I _wonder_ what that means now, eh, God?"

She turned.

God smiled. He was beautiful, she thought, and old, and serene. And, her mind added bitterly, proof. Not that he could get around her by merely _existing_.

"My child," said God. "I'm glad you came."

Huh, Jen thought. Emotion. Bit… _human_ of him.

"Came where? Heaven? Nyah. Thanks for not having your angels kick my ass."

He smiled, and the lines around his eyes intensified. Jen realized that, despite his age, there really should have been more. He was over six thousand years old, right? According to the Bible. She didn't really agree with the Bible, being an atheist and all, but at the very least the man could have been consistent.

"Why would I do that?"

"You know, me being the Antichrist and all."

"Ah. Yes." God nodded. "I'm afraid you're mistaken a bit on that point, my child. Come with me. I'd like to show you something."

* * *

Crowley felt Aziraphale move against him, and then there was a sharp pain in his shoulder, and then—

He looked into his angel's eyes, and they weren't so angelic anymore. Crowley screamed, loud and breathless and heartbroken, and when he woke up the world was white.

* * *

Aziraphale was confused.

What sensible being unchained a prisoner and let him free? Because as angelic as the angel was, he was not an idiot. He was not going to simply go where they'd told him to—

Only the other angels weren't idiots, either, and they'd probably expect him to think that.

Aziraphale, standing in the centre of the silver city, paused in confusion.

He might as well--

"Aziraphale?"

"John? What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, actually," said John, looking over his shoulder. "But then Jen sort of—" He made a 'pft' noise with his lips. "And now I'm looking for her."

"What? You brought the Antichrist to Heaven?"

"She wouldn't let me rescue you alone," John said. "You don't seem to need it, though."

"I _did_," said Aziraphale. "Er. Then they let me go and told me to go talk to Zephkiel."

"Who is?"

"Senior Manager of Heaven," said Aziraphale. "One step above the Metatron, actually. God's advisor, if you will."

"Ooh, big meeting," John teased. "Can I come?"

"Oh, why not?"

"Orgasmic," said John, earning him an incredulous look from the older angel.

"It is wise," he said, "to not use words relating to one's enemy, John."

"Sorry. I'm new at this."

* * *

Crowley paused, unsure whether or not this was a dream. He hadn't seen this city since—

Well.

He'd be damned if he was redeemed, or if this meant Aziraphale was going to—

But his angel couldn't fall—_the_ angel, not _his_ angel. Aziraphale, Crowley reminded himself, had done nothing to deserve the possessive.

Here he was, back Up Here again, and Aziraphale was on his mind. Crowley was pretty sure he had other problems.

* * *

God led Jen through a door—_Random_, Jen thought, _it's just standing there. Why the nonsensical attitude?_—and into a hall. It had thrones in it. Twelve of them. There were pictures of various saints above ten, which Jen found a tad baroque.

Also, there was, for no apparent reason, a Slurpie machine in one corner of the hall. Jen could not fathom why.

"Mkay," Jen said. "So Heaven's Mount Olympus, then?"

"Ideas merge," said God. "Although I am the sole deity here."

"Why the other eleven chairs, then?"

"My children," said God simply. "The prophets, the saviours. The chosen ones. These are the people who saved your world, slowly and surely. They were great thinkers, brilliant minds, _heroes_."

"Lovely," said Jen. "Can I have a Slurpie?"

"Jesus broke it last Tuesday, I'm afraid," said God. He sighed. "We'll get it fixed in a little while, I suppose."

"Aren't you supposed to be omnipotent?"

"Hm?"

"Can't you miracle it fixed?"

God gave her a blank stare. "That's cheating," he said blankly.

"Right," said Jen. "But then you don't get a Slurpie."

"No," said God, "But, my dear, there's more to life than Slurpies."

"Like what?"

"Happiness," said God. "Dreams. Love."

"Love is overrated," said Jen. "Dreams are rarely achieved. And, in my opinion, you can find happiness in a Slurpie, so I fail to see your point." She looked at the table with the Slurpie machine. "Which brings me back to my original question. Actually, no, it brings up a new question. Why the hell do you have a Slurpie machine up here, anyways?"

"Why not?" asked God, shrugging.

* * *

"You may sit, if you wish," Zephkiel said, smiling warmly. "Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps? I know you have been staying in Britain, don't they like tea there?"

"Uh, tea, yeah. Sure." He fiddled uncomfortably with his halo. Contrary to popular belief, everyone got one up here. Not only the angels, but demons, too, and a mortal that one time.

Crowley felt odd. He sat, uncomfortable, and wondered why he wasn't getting court-marshalled.

"Your partner will be arriving in a moment," said Zephkiel, sitting behind his desk.

Zephkiel looked like Aziraphale, Crowley thought, only not as… Ahem. He wasn't going to finish that sentence, because demons didn't use the word "cute". It just wasn't respectable.

The senior angel was thin, unlike Aziraphale, but Crowley supposed that they didn't have chocolate in Heaven. He had the same curling hair, however, and the same fashion sense. Only Heaven could have invented the sweater-vest.

"So," said Crowley, leaning back in his chair, "are you gonna tell me why I'm here?"

Zephkiel looked up. Aziraphale and John burst in.

"Yes," said Zephkiel. "Aziraphale, John, you may take a seat, if you wish."

"Hey, sexy," said Crowley, winking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale blinked.

"Crowley? What…"

"Take a seat, angel," said Crowley. "I'm just as confused as you are."

* * *

Jen and God lounged in the chairs, sipping Slurpies.

"You said I was mistaken?" Jen asked.

"Yes," said God, and he sat up in his throne.

"On me being the Antichrist."

"Yes."

"Alright."

"Mn-hmn."

"Yes…"

"Yes."

Jen sighed. "How am I mistaken?"

God smiled. Mild sadism, Jen thought begrudgingly. Another humanoid trait.

* * *

"You've been called here," said Zephkiel, stirring his tea, "because we are offering you two a deal."

"Now," said John, "when you say 'you two'…"

"I mean Crowley and Aziraphale, of course," said Zephkiel. "I'm afraid you weren't expected today, Johnael."

"John," said John automatically.

"Yes."

"As you were saying?" Aziraphale prompted politely, edging ever closer to Crowley. The angel didn't even notice. It was instinct by this point.

John was mildly uncomfortable with this. "Can I wait outside?" he asked. The other three immortals nodded—he left hastily.

"Ah, yes," said Zephkiel. "Aziraphale, Crowley, the two of you have formed a… a _relationship_ over the millennia. Now, in the past, this has not been an issue. The work got done. You carried out the ineffable plan, despite your allegiances."

"Yeah?" said Crowley defensively. "So what's the problem, huh?"

"The problem," said Zephkiel, "is that it's come to our attention that you've become rather _too_ close. Longtime, amiable enemies are perfectly acceptable, even encouraged in some circumstances. However." He stood. Aziraphale slunk back in his seat. Crowley's hands transformed smoothly into fists.

"Yeah?" he hissed, and his tongue flicked out, or maybe it didn't.

"Sodomy," said Zephkiel. "Love. Lust. The abandoning of heavenly-slash-infernal duties to spend _time_ with your enemy. These matters are most unbecoming of both demon and angel."

"Screw it," said Crowley. Aziraphale elbowed him.

"What are you saying?" the bookkeeper whispered.

"I have a proposal for you," said Zephkiel. He smiled. "Aziraphale, you have committed sin. The usual punishment for this is to Fall."

Aziraphale only winced. It was Crowley who cried out.

"What?" he said. "You can't—"

"And you, Crowley, have spent years doing good deeds," Zephkiel continued. "While this is unprecedented, a demon can Rise for such behaviour."

"What?" Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded. He'd expected that, actually, although he wasn't sure why.

"Those are our terms," said Zephkiel. "If you choose to accept them, you shall be allowed to continue your relationship. Both sides believe this will even the playing field. If not, however…" He didn't finish. Aziraphale and Crowley had imagination enough to figure out what he'd say.

Zephkiel left, and the angel and demon were alone in the room.

Their eyes met.

* * *

"When's it due?"

"When's what due?"

"Your child?"

Jen paused mid-slurp. The Slurpie splashed on the ground and absorbed itself into the carpet.

"My what?"

* * *

"So we accept their terms," said Aziraphale softly. "You return to Heaven, and the Name's light, and we can be together. It's a simple enough—"

"I can't let you Fall."

"I'll be fine. You're fine, and you Fell."

"No, I Sauntered Vaguely Downwards. You've read the book. You aren't me, angel."

The nickname held a lot of weight, suddenly. Aziraphale brushed a hand through his halo self-consciously. He took a deep breath.

"I'd Fall for you any day," he said. Their eyes met.

Then, despite the seriousness of the situation, despite both their souls being at risk and all, they burst into uncontrollable laughter.

It was a few moments before they recovered.

"Angel, that was terrible."

"I couldn't resist," Aziraphale said, giggling. "My apologies."

"That was a _pickup line_."

"And a rather nice one, at that," said Aziraphale. "See, no other being in the universe would have understood that. That's why we have to take this deal, Crowley."

"Hmn," said Crowley.

"I can Save you," Aziraphale whispered, "and we can still be together, and nothing has to change…"

The dreams slithered through Crowley's mind. He shivered, although Heaven had no real air temperature to speak of.

"Everything would change," he said softly. "I can't do it, angel. I'm not that strong."

"Anyone can be saved, Crowley!" Aziraphale stomped his foot on the floor, furious. "What strength does that take?"

Crowley hissed slightly. What was he supposed to say? That he couldn't bear to see the angel—_his_ angel, Aziraphale—Fall? Change? He couldn't imagine Aziraphale kicking puppies or super-gluing valuable coins to the sidewalk. Or having a sense of fashion.

It was an unbearable thought.

There was a knock at the door.

"Crowley, please. I want to save you. I want to be with you forever," said Aziraphale. Sure, he said that now. No demon in their right mind would say that. Only angels. He didn't want that to change.

Zephkiel knocked again.

"Come in," said Crowley.

"Crowley, _please_."

"I'm sorry," said Crowley, and kissed Aziraphale dead on the mouth.

Zephkiel opened the door, saw the kiss, and a slight smile flashed across his face.

"Have you made your choice, then?" he asked.

"Yes," said Crowley, just as Aziraphale said, "No."

"Need more time, then?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Please."

"You have a week," said Zephkiel, and then they were back on Earth.

* * *

Jen brushed her hand across her stomach.

"Are you sure?"

God raised an eyebrow—human, she thought, but only in passing—and Jen closed her eyes.

"You don't want to know the father?"

"I've only ever had sex once," Jen said. "I'm pretty sure I know the dad."

God shrugged.

"Can I… Alright, I need to leave now," Jen said. "I gotta think on this. I'd show myself out, but I don't even know what dimension I'm in…"

"Of course, how silly of me." God waved a hand. Another random door appeared.

Jen looked at it for a moment, wondered if it was trustworthy, and then decided she didn't care.

She walked back into relative normalcy.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Chapter Twelve_**

**(Warning, use of the F-word in this chapter. Oooh, vulgar.)**

* * *

Jen stepped out from behind a tree. She was in St. James park, at dusk, or dawn, or something, and she was starving.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and John were sitting on a park bench a few meters away. Oh, good. They were free, then.

Jen touched her hand to her abdomen again, staring at the demon's face.

She didn't love him. Not in that way. And now she had to have his kid, go through that pain—

Because something in her said she wasn't gonna be able to stop this thing. It wouldn't make a good story that way. This wasn't a story, Jen thought, it was real life… But she thought in stories, as writers do, and this was how she saw the world.

She'd try to get rid of the thing. Her… Her baby. The thought was awkward in her mind.

How was she gonna tell Crowley?

How was she gonna tell Aziraphale?

They were sitting close, Jen could see, which seemed to be making John uncomfortable. And holding hands. Something had happened, then, something big. Something that was causing the tears to run down Aziraphale's face, and Crowley's locked jaw.

"You all right, then?" Jen asked, taking a step forward.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance. "No," said Aziraphale, shrugging. "I think I need to lie down for a while."

"You never sleep," said John, forever oblivious. "Virtue is ever-vigilant, right?"

"Yes, well." Aziraphale glanced up at the sky. It looked like rain. "I still need a nap."

"Alright. Hey, Crowley, wanna catch a bite?" Jen asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

"I think I'm gonna lie down, too, actually," Crowley said, tightening Aziraphale's hand in his.

"No, Crowley, we really need to get a bite to eat," Jen said. She looked him dead in the eyes. I'm pregnant, she thought. Carrying your kid.

He didn't get the message. "Maybe later, kid," he said softly.

"Fine. John, hungry?"

"Why not?"

"Can I at least borrow your credit card, Crowley?"

* * *

Jen was quiet at the Ritz, spinning Crowley's credit card through her fingers. The wine came, and went, and Jen hardly said a word.

John didn't ask what the matter was. He never asked questions when she needed him to. Jen didn't offer any information.

"Tired?" John said, eventually.

"No," said Jen. She'd ordered chicken parmesan. It came, and was half-gone before she spoke again.

"John, I'm in trouble."

He smirked. "You finally realized it, didn't you?"

Jen choked a bit. "You knew?"

"Jen, it was obvious. I'm a freakin' angel. I can't believe it didn't hit you earlier."

"Angels can sense things like this? Well, I guess that makes sense. But why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried to, you never listened. I'm surprised it took you so long to come to terms with this, Jen. I mean, we were up in _Heaven_."

Jen paused. "Wait, what's that got to do with me being preggers?"

John spat his inconvenient mouthful of wine all over her, and then realized he'd just spat wine all over a pregnant woman. Pink napkins materialized out of nowhere, and he offered them hastily.

"I take it you weren't talking about that?" Jen asked, dabbing away the spittle and alcohol.

"I though you were finally giving up atheism," John said, abashed. "Silly me."

"Yes, silly you." Jen sighed.

"So you're… Um. With who, Aziraphale? Can angels even do that?"

"Demons can. The night you arrived. We got smashed, and we… er. It was an accident. A big one."

"How'd you find out?"

"God told me," Jen said with a shrug. "Nice dude."

John groaned and flopped his head into his hands. "How are you still an atheist?" he asked, more out of habit than actual interest. "How are you, you of all people, pregnant?"

"Well, when a mommy and a daddy get really drunk…"

"No," said John, glaring at her. "Have you told Crowley?"

"No. I tried to, but he wouldn't take the bait. Had to tell someone."

"My G—"

"Lord's name in vain," Jen said. "Can't do that, angel."

"Screw you," John muttered, and leaned back in his chair. "You're sure?"

"No," Jen said. "I have a pregnancy test back in my underwear drawer in the shop. But I heard from God, so I'm assuming he's right."

John sighed. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah. Just let me pick up the tab."

"That's Crowley's card." He paused. "Don't you have your own money?"

"Yeah," Jen said. "But he got me pregnant, paying for dinner's the least he can do."

* * *

As they walked back, Jen's cell phone rang. She picked it up.

"Hallo. Oh, Kerrie! Um, hey! What's up?"

Pause. Shock. Her heart rate sped.

"Oh, really? Did Zira let you in? Yeah, he's pretty cool. One sec." She put her hand over the receiver. "John," she whispered. "John, Kerrie's in the bookshop."

"Really? Awesome!" John grinned. "I haven't seen Kerrie in ages!"

"She can't see you, John, you're supposed to be dead."

He paused. The smile leaked off his face.

"Oh," he whispered.

Jen winced. "Yeah," she said to the voice on the phone, "I'm still here. Sorry. Um." What to say? Kerrie, you won't believe it, there's another dude working at the shop who looks exactly like John! Yeah, that would work. Totally. "I'll be there in about ten seconds, see you then? Sure! Awesome, can't believe you're here!"

She hung up.

"Although some warning would have been nice."

"What happened?"

"Kerrie decided to come visit," Jen said. "Damn. If you weren't dead, this would be awesome."

"Why can't we just let her in on the secret?"

"Because. We're not supposed to. I'm the only one who's figured it out, to my knowledge. And Anethema Device, but she's psychic. And Newt, I guess, and Shadwell, and Madame Tracy, and the Them… But other than that. Just me."

"Well, someone's unique."

"John."

"Why can't we tell her?"

"Because. She can't know."

"Why not?"

"It's just the rules, okay?" Jen sighed. "John, she came here for the same reasons I did. I don't think it's a good idea to show her you're alive."

"What reasons?"

Jen paused. Damn. Freudian slip. "Um."

"What reasons, Jen?"

"To get away from you," Jen said. "I swear, John, it's not as mean as it sounds." He clenched his jaw, tightened his fists. "John, I love you. I came here to escape that. Kerrie thinks you're dead. She came here to escape that, too."

"So you guys ran from me because you love me."

"Yes," Jen said brightly.

"Wow, and that still hurts."

She hugged him. "I'm sorry, John."

"Why do you love me, Jen?" The question was random, loaded, and so entirely stupid that Jen didn't know how to answer it.

She let go. "I have absolutely no idea. I just do. I can't help it." There was an awkward pause. "Listen, go to Crowley's, okay? You should be alright there, and he'll take care of you. Don't tell him about the kid. I'll get Kerrie out of here ASAP, okay?"

"Let me know how she's doing, I guess," John muttered, and meandered off down a side street. Jen watched him go, her heart ripping a little more with each step.

Hadn't she _dreamed_ about this in high school? Just her and him against the world? Hadn't she hated it when it was John and Kerrie in a class together, when she'd gotten left out of the picture? It had killed her.

The thought still killed her.

Possessive, Jen thought. I'm too possessive. I need to work on that jealousy thing one of these days. Sin, right? It's fine in moderation, but if I sin too much I'm gonna end the world one of these days…

Jen sighed.

Smile plastered, she walked on.

* * *

"Kerrielicious!"

"Jen-zizzle!"

And the two friends embraced.

Kerrie was stockily built, with electric red hair that curled around her shoulders. She had a permanently-smiling face, wore no makeup at all, and had on a T-shirt with Owen Wilson's face on.

Jen still wasn't sure how much she liked Kerrie. There was a reason for this.

Kerrie was an optimist. Eternally. If Death himself knocked on her door in the morning, at least she wasn't going to fail her History final this year. Jen had no problem with a happy outlook on life, but.

There was a limit.

Still, they were good friends, and Jen hugged Kerrie half-happily. Azirapahle, standing in a corner, beamed.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he bubbled, nodding. "Since you need to find some lady friends, Jennifer, really, you've just been in the company of Crowley and I and—"

"And it's _good_ to _see_ you, _Kerrie_," Jen said, shaking her head fervently behind Kerrie's back. Don't mention John, she mouthed.

"Hm?"

Don't. Mention. John.

Aziraphale nodded. Admittedly, Jen and John hadn't spoken about Kerrie much. She hadn't come up in conversation. He'd gotten the feeling that they avoided her as a topic in general.

"Jen, you heard, right?"

"About what?"

"About John."

It took Jen a moment to react. Right. John was dead. She loved him. Therefore, her face needed to blanch, and her muscles stiffen, and her voice choke a bit—

"Yeah," Jen said hoarsely. "I heard."

"Are you alright?"

Jen nodded. "Sure. Fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Jen tried not to smile. _I know something you don't know…_

"Jen, I—"

"Can we not talk about this?" _I don't want to give anything away on accident. Freudian slips shall be the death of me, I know it._ "You want some tea, or something?"

"Tea would be fantabulous." _Fantabulous?_ "So you've picked up an accent, huh?"

"Have I?"

* * *

John showed up at Crowley's house feeling melancholy. Great. So both his best friends were having a party, and he wasn't invited.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"What're you doing here?"

"An old friend of mine and Jen's showed up at the shop, who thinks I'm dead. So I got kicked out."

"And you came here?"

"Where else would I go?"

"A hotel? You like hotels, right?"

Yes, he _did_ like hotels. Back when he was human, John had been aiming for a major in hospitality, but how did Crowley—

"How'd you know?"

"Jen said. She talks about you quite a bit."

"Does she?" John sighed. "She's in love with me, Crowley."

"Yeah. I know."

"I don't love her in return. Not in the way she wants."

"So sad."

"You're completely apathetic here, aren't you?" John paused. "Wow, look at me, using big words. Apathetic."

"Yeah," said Crowley. He seemed distracted.

"Can I come in?" John asked.

The demon winced. "If you must," he said.

"Friendly, aren't we?"

"I'm a demon, kid," Crowley said, and went back to his couch. "The Golden Girls" was playing, John noticed with some amusement. Sure, he'd had Crowley pinned as a television fan, but he'd always seemed like more of a reality or game show guy.

John felt uncomfortable. He was alone in an apartment with a man who was dating another man, or at least another man-shaped being, and John had no problem with queers, but what if the same thing happened to him as what had happened to _Jen_…

Crowley looked at him from the couch. "I thought you wanted to come in."

"Yeah. Er."

"You're terrified of me, aren't you?"

John shrugged.

"Jen told you about what happened, didn't she?"

"Yeah. And—"

"I don't fuck everything that moves, you know," said Crowley. "Aziraphale would kill me, and I don't usually make a habit of sleeping with angels, anyway."

A hot stream of blood rushed to John's cheeks. Oh, G- shit (shit was still an acceptable swear, right?), the demon could read minds. Why could the _demon_ read minds, if angels couldn't? Maybe if he concentrated—

"Why are you making that face?"

John blanched. "Er," he said gracefully. "Can you read minds?"

"That's a bizarre question," said Crowley. "No. Just faces. What, did you think you could?"

John didn't bother to answer. He knew his face would just give it away, anyways.

* * *

**_an: _Apologies for the eons between updates. I've been incredibly busy, and I'm sorry that this chapter wasn't exactly the most exciting in the world... Anyways, I'll update soon. Sorry 'bout the wait!**


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